Letters from Loved Ones
by D McCall
Summary: What if Beckett's psychiatrist recommended she write a letter to Castle telling him exactly how she feels? AU set at the beginning of season 4. Borrows slightly from "Rise."
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first fanfic story. I am looking for any and all feedback – I'm here to learn! So let me know your thoughts if you have any… and enjoy!

* * *

Ensconced in an inky black, her ears pound with the sound of her lungs as they heave deep, heavy rasps.

Her eyes dart wildly, searching for anything to focus on in the dark abyss.

Her body convulses with the wave of blood rushing through it, like water raging past an unleashed dam.

Her whole system restarts with a jerk, as if the 'on' switch has suddenly been thrown.

She fights for the image. Fights to keep him close. The only thing getting her through this hell.

But with each reprieve she's given, her mind takes a little longer to get him to her, wasting precious seconds she doesn't have.

And then, miraculously, there he is. Her body instantly caves, suddenly cocooned in warmth. She sees him. Feels him.

His lips feed on the elegant curve of her collarbone.

His hand reaches along her thigh – fevered flesh on flesh.

Her heel traces a line up his spine.

Their fingers intertwine. Their palms fuse. Their hips undulate in perfect sync.

Her heart quickens, its beat intensifying with every wave. Overwhelming her senses. Leaching into every part of her.

And then all she can see is black. Unending black. As if sunlight is a fairytale that never truly existed.

Instead of the sweet timbre of his soft whisper in her ear, all she can hear is that depraved voice echoing in her brain, planting a chill deep within her.

"You know what they say Detective Beckett. Knock on the devil's door long enough, he's bound to open it for you."

* * *

_**Three months and two days earlier…**_

He stands outside her hospital door, flowers in one hand, a bundle of nerves in the other.

He hasn't felt this way since…. well, since he told Susie Connors he liked her in the sixth grade. For that brief moment before he uttered those words to her he was so scared of the consequences. So scared she wouldn't respond, or worse, laugh at his confession. Rejecting him in front of everyone.

But she had taken the news well – squealed if he remembered correctly - and responded in kind. And from that moment on he never worried quite the same about his desires being unrequited… until now.

His luck persisted through high school. Getting girls seemed to be effortless. He adopted a humble attitude about it when chided by his friends, yet underneath he always knew how easy he had it.

But with that ease came restlessness, some part of him disappointed that there wasn't more risk involved. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was always looking for the woman who wouldn't give in so readily.

He thought he had found that girl in Kyra. She was different than the others, an independent spirit that awed him, inspired him. She made him forget all about his own desires so long as he could live in hers.

But he was young and unknown then; everything that is his life now had yet to be discovered (or as he sometimes thinks of it, shackled to him). He was easily swayed by her and there was no conflict between them. No tension. Because he was too young to even know yet what it was he wanted to fight for.

If Kyra had let him, he'd have married her. Because he was impulsive and liked to think of himself as a romantic, not because it was the right thing to do.

Kyra ran off to London before he could ask. Maybe that's why she left? Maybe she sensed he was getting to that point? And while a tiny part of his heart still aches for that time in their lives, he knows she was the smart one. She made the right choice for both of them.

He needed to live through the heartache in order grow up enough to become the man he is today. The man standing in front of Kate Beckett's hospital door, his admission fresh on his lips, his heart skipping like a teenager's.

It took Kyra, two failed marriages and raising Alexis but he finally found the girl that challenged him. Took him to the next level. Demanded more from him.

If he had met her when he was younger his ego probably wouldn't have been able to take her. But he'd been through stuff. He'd had his heart broken, some of his dreams had been dashed, he'd raised a daughter.

He was finally ready.

As he stands in front of her hospital door, he can't help but feel he is out of his league.

He's confessed everything to her. He hadn't meant to, but he found he couldn't hold his tongue in front of her any longer. If she left this world and didn't know how he felt, he wasn't sure he could live with himself.

Thankfully she'd stayed here, in the same universe, with him. And now she knew his true feelings, the ones he had kept buried so deep for so long. How would she react? What would she say to him? What did she think?

Does she feel the same?

He starts to feel faint – not even realizing he'd been holding his breath.

"C'mon Rick. This is stupid. You've never been the type to sweat it out silently. Get it over with. Rip the band-aid off. Get. In. There." He mutters this out loud before booting himself inside the hospital room.

When he first sets his sights on her, he hitches, his heart lumping in his throat. Not a response to how he feels, but how she must.

He's never seen her so frail, so weathered. She looks exhausted and drained. It's her, but it isn't her.

"Hey."

She looks up, a sly smile creeps over her lips. There's that spark. Thank god. It's faint, but it's there.

"Hi."

He takes a seat beside her.

"How you feeling?"

"My insides are a little scrambled and my entire body aches. But on the plus side I've met my new BFF."

He looks up, confused.

She holds up her morphine drip.

"Ahhh." Faint spark, sense of humor – the situation isn't as dire as he first thought.

"I heard you tackled me? I hope you didn't touch anything without my permission."

He smiles, slightly embarrassed – he definitely touched things he wasn't supposed to, but it wasn't like he was enjoying it at the time.

And then it clicks.

"You heard?"

"That's what the boys told me. Said you were a regular hero."

"You don't remember?"

Her cheeks flush, as if out of embarrassment. But about what? He's not sure.

She shakes her head no. "It's all just… a big blur."

So she doesn't remember. He can start over. Slate cleaned.

The thought should make him feel better, but instead a wave of nausea works its way through him.

He looks up at her, trying hard to keep his eyes from betraying him. That's when he sees it, albeit for just a fleeting second. A look he swears is fear flashes across her face.

"Kate?"

They turn. Josh bustles through the door. No knock, just steps right in. As if he owns the room.

He nods in acknowledgment to Castle.

"Visiting hours are over. She needs her rest."

"Doctor knows best." He gives her a weak smile. "Call you tomorrow?"

Josh answers for her. "Tomorrow's not so good, Rick. She's got physical therapy most of the day."

Never one to enjoy being told what to do (well by anyone other than Beckett) he swallows his irritation.

"Okay. I'll check in later, then."

"I'll call you, okay?" She's throwing him a bone. Trying to make him feel less… marginalized. If he wasn't so annoyed he'd be appreciative.

"Sure." And he's out the door, ashamed that he's been run out by Josh, but unable to spend another second in the same room with the two of them.

She'll call.

She'll call and he'll come see her and they'll be alone – really alone – for a while. Things will get back to normal.

This is supposed to comfort him but instead it stings. Who knew that normal was the last thing he really wanted?

He calms himself. This will be a minor blip on their relationship screen. He'll be back later in the week. Things will progress. They won't stay this way forever.

They'll find their way back. A day, a week maybe. But they'll put this behind them and they'll be partners again.

All he needs to do is wait for her call.

* * *

_**Three months later…**_

Kate picks at the edge of the couch. Waiting isn't her strong suit. But she's in another professional's domain now. She can't run the show. She has to be patient.

She shifts on the cushion, unable to get comfortable on the plush sofa.

Tick, tick, tick. The ever-present clock strums along like nothing's wrong. It makes her feel even worse. She has thoughts of throwing it across the room. But her psychiatrist would likely classify that behavior as volatile. Better squelch that urge.

Talking about her feelings isn't fun for her, but she's been down this road before. This is what needs to be done. No sense putting off the inevitable.

"Kate?"

Dr. Burke enters through the alternate door – ahh the civility of psychiatry, finding creative ways to protect their patient's anonymity. She appreciates the effort – she certainly isn't comfortable sitting in a waiting room where other patients can observe her 'mental state' but the set up always struck her as awkward; it highlights that need everyone has to hide something.

Being a homicide detective, she knows that desire better than most. But the thought that she too has secrets, isn't anything she likes to admit out loud.

He sits down in his armchair across from her.

"I was surprised to get your call. Since I cleared you for duty, I figured we were done. Everything okay?"

"Yep." She opens her mouth to talk again - she knows she owes him an explanation - but nothing comes out. Dutifully, he sits silent, waiting for her to make the first move.

"I lied. About what I remember. About the shooting."

"Oh."

She smiles to herself. Psychiatrists are always so polite. Most people wouldn't take that information so lightly. But these doctors? No judgment.

What adds to the irony is just how opposite that reaction would be from a certain partner of hers. He's the one she really needs to confess these things to.

"Why?"

Such a simple question, but the answer is at the crux of her dilemma.

This is why she brought herself here: to figure out why she lied to him, and to find out, possibly, if she's been lying to herself too.

"I really… don't know."

He lets that sit there. She knows what he's thinking – "_You do know Kate. You know why you said you didn't remember. Because that was easier. Because remembering makes you accountable. And you're not ready for that."_

This is what goes down in her head during the silence. He's a good doctor, she thinks. Gets her to confess all this in her mind.

"I know we've done this before, but let's go over what you experienced that day. This time, tell me everything."

She takes a deep breath. Air is the only thing she has to prepare herself for the wash of emotion that comes with dredging up these painful memories.

"I remember… standing at the podium. It was hot. I was in my uniform. God… it felt… suffocating." She yanks her shirt sleeves around her wrists as she recalls the feeling of standing in front of everyone. Standing up for her mentor, the one man she looked up to. One of the many men who ultimately let her down.

This was one of the realities she was hesitant to come to terms with. Someone she had put a lot of faith in, who fit in with the image of her life perfectly, had turned out to be a bad guy. And that partner, the one who so clearly did not belong in her life, he was the one who'd been the true hero. Her hero.

"I was just trying to stay calm. I didn't want to get upset. His family was there. They didn't need to see someone else getting emotional. That was their day. Their time to grieve their loss."

"It was your loss too."

Suddenly annoyed, Kate springs up to pace the room, shaking her head no. "He was their husband, their father. I needed to be there for them, not the other way around."

"You keep being there for everyone. Who's there for you?"

It's on the tip of her tongue but she stops herself from saying his name just in time. It's so clear to her, but somehow, she just can't bring herself to say it out loud.

A few years ago she might've said her dad's name. More for his sake – because that's what he'd want to hear. But the truth is those roles had been reversed long ago. Child had become parent and vice versa. She might have said it, but she wouldn't have really meant it.

She was in her early twenties the last time she remembered the comfort that comes from knowing someone is there for you. Knowing the world around you is just and fair, and the ones you love are safe.

All that was blown away once her mother was taken from her. Collapsed like a papier-mâché tower in a windstorm.

So she soldiered on, taking care of everyone around her as well as herself. And she liked it that way. Uncomplicated. Clean. Controlled.

But her relationship with Castle? That was new. A completely fresh dynamic. And she was illequipped to handle it.

She was smart enough to know she needed him. But it made things messy. And unclear. She could no longer look at herself as the end of the line, the one who would always supply support and never require it.

She now had her own personally assigned ally.

She hadn't asked for him. He just blew in one day and refused to leave. And she'd adapted. Because he made things fun. It brought some levity to the day to day. And she'd been surprised by how starved for levity she was.

It didn't hurt that he made time fly – evaporate even. So if there was a moment to stop and consider this new relationship, she didn't have to. She could just sweep it under the rug. But now, now the rug could barely contain all that she'd shoved under there.

Hence why she's at her therapist's office on a Thursday afternoon instead of work.

"So you're at the podium and then what?"

"I heard Castle moving toward me. He'd figured it out before I had. I would've seen it too, I was just… so worried about the speech. It took me a second to register what had happened."

Pride won't let her confess she completely missed the glint of sunlight as it kicked off the sniper's gun. Sure, some part of her subconscious immediately registered danger. But she was numb that day and it took an extra half-second for her body to react.

Castle, however, pounced immediately. He was on her in a flash. Drawing her down to safety. If he'd been a half step closer he probably could've prevented the bullet from hitting her altogether.

"And he pulled you down?"

"Yes, but I had already been hit."

She rubs her fingers over her scar, feeling the sting of where the bullet pierced her sternum. Like a tiny pinprick with the power to suck all the air out of her lungs.

"You didn't black out?"

Kate just shakes her head sadly. "I felt the bullet hit and there was this pain but then it was gone and I was just… trying to breathe."

"Shock will do that. Your adrenaline runs so high you don't feel anything. It's probably what kept you conscious."

She nods, already knowing this but not in the mood to correct him. Let him think he has something to teach her. It buys her time, time from having to get to what she's really there to talk about.

"You told me you blacked out before the ambulance arrived. Did that not really happen?"

She can't blame him for pressing her. It's what she showed up for after all.

"Many officers who get shot don't like to admit that they remember what it felt like. Makes it hard to imagine putting yourself back out in the field, where it could happen again."

She knows where he's going. He's giving her an out.

"Is that why you lied?" He offers.

"No." She's stalling.

"If you aren't ready to talk about it yet…"

"He said he loved me."

"Who did? Castle?"

"Yeah. Yes."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be here." Her tone, sharper than intended, surprises her.

"It bothers you?"

"Yeah, it bothers me." Her voice raises a pitch. She's just starting to scratch the surface of how she feels about this and she's kick starting it with anger. "What was he thinking? I mean out of all the inappropriate moments. Who does that? Who ambushes someone with that information right after she gets shot?"

"I think he may have been trying to tell you something important before he lost you."

Ouch.

Well, that's why she came here. For someone to slap her with a little reality, call her out on her bullshit. She knew she was behaving badly. Immature even. But she needed to. It was the only acceptable way to get at everything that was needling her. Now that she knew, for a fact, how he felt about her.

Deep in the middle of the night, when she was locked in a nocturnal cage of insomnia, she would let her mind wander to that kind of moment. Where Castle told her exactly what he thought of her.

She had trained him to keep his true feelings about her a secret. But in the safety of her bedroom she would let herself explore how it would feel to know a man like that was completely invested in her.

He knew everything and still, he chose to stay. Not only to stay, but to love her, despite all her flaws. It was so good, it was hard to take.

"May I make a suggestion?"

Kate lifts her eyes – suddenly not sure she can last the rest of the session. The room with two doors growing ever more claustrophobic.

"Sure."

"Start writing some of these thoughts down. It may help to see them on paper. One, it'll get them out of your head. Two, they may not seem so bad in black and white."

Kate nods. The advice is sage, but the last thing she wants to do is put any of this in writing. Then it would be real.

Then she'd never be able to sweep it under the rug.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks so much for your responses! Keep 'em coming! Feel free to let me know anything that works for you, doesn't work for you, annoys you, makes you want to yell at me…. I'm game!_

_I meant to say 2 things when I posted the first chapter:_

_1. I received some wonderful help from a few fantastic betas. I would not be in as good shape on these chapters if it weren't for: CastleWriter16, Caskettalways, chezchuckles & Katrina._

_2. I own nothing – I do not own Beckett, I do not own Castle, nor any of the other amazingly fun characters Andrew Marlowe (and crew) have created. Thank you Mr. Marlowe & ABC for letting me play in your world!_

* * *

Sunset sweeps through the bullpen and across her desk as she flips through paperwork. She's making a good show of it, but really she's only been rereading the same twenty lines of bureaucratic spew for the past hour.

Across the way she can feel Esposito and Ryan glancing over at her, trying to judge her mood. She'd tell them to stop but she doesn't trust her voice, worried she may show more emotion than she intends.

Visiting her therapist always leaves her feeling exposed. So she's learned to carefully conceal herself afterwards. Don't get into any big conversation, don't look up long enough to engage someone else, stay hidden.

She had forgotten these rules she'd made up for herself back then, when she needed a way to navigate her life while she waited for the wall to restore itself. Those raw moments when her skin was still thin and her emotions brewed just under its surface.

She forgot all about it because for so long now he'd been here waiting for her, sitting in his chair, working on his paperclip chain/fiddling with his phone/rearranging the items on her desk, until she returned. She could always count on him to bring her right back to reality - a reality she wanted to be a part of - where she could laugh easily because she was focusing on the adventure of the case instead of the tragedy.

Before she can stop herself, her eyes flit lightly over to his empty chair. She keeps her head down but she can't escape the twist in her gut that pinches, like a thin blade pricking her most sensitive spot.

Esposito gets up – crap, he noticed. He saunters casually over to her and plops down into the empty chair, playing relaxed, but she can see the stiffness in his jaw. Esposito is a good cop, but she knows his tells.

"What's up, Espo? You offering to file my reports for me?" She throws it out there, like she's got no cares in the world, but she keeps her eyes down, afraid they might betray her.

"Hell, no. I just finished mine."

"Then why are you sitting in my chair?"

"Just checking out the view from here. Never realized he can see straight into the break room. No wonder he obsesses about the espresso machine so much."

This is why he sat in Castle's seat, she's sure of it. So he can gauge where she's at with the missing novelist.

Come hell or high water she will not let him see her face. The only thing she'd convey at this point is regret… and longing, neither of which she wants to share with Esposito. He's a good friend, but not that kind of friend.

She thinks maybe her silence will scare him off, but instead of getting up, he reaches for the pile of mail stacked on her desk. She's been avoiding it, not wanting to deal yet with the physical reminder of how long she's been off the job.

Esposito flips through it, chucking most of it in the trash – thank god. This is actually a nice gift he's giving her. He's whittling the pile down, getting to the bottom of it. But about three letters from the end he hesitates, his hand stopping mid-air.

Too curious to stay closed off to him she lifts her head and surveys the envelope in his hand. "What?"

He glances up at her, gauges her mood, and then flips the envelope around for her to read. His index finger taps the upper corner, points straight at the name on the return address.

It reads "R. Montgomery."

Cautiously she plucks it out of his hands, clasping it lightly by its edges. To an outsider it might look like a trained cop expertly handling the evidence, but it's greater than that. She's nervous about holding something a ghost sent her.

She twists it back and forth between her fingertips in disbelief. "It's postmarked the day he died. He must've sent it before I met with him in the hanger."

Excitement overtakes her and she places the envelope down, rummages through her drawer and picks out a razor blade. She delicately slices the package open. The paper inside spills out, like organs spurting out of a gutted fish.

It's a handwritten letter to her, Montgomery's signature evident in each word. A wave of nostalgia hits her. Something about how he swings the ends of his g's puts her right back to when she was a cadet and he was grooming her for homicide.

Her eyes flit across the pages, unable to absorb all the information at once. Snippets of sentences stand out: _"I'm sorry"_, _"I didn't mean for this to happen"_, _"I was trying to protect you_._"_

Her insides churn with a flurry of mixed emotions: rage tangled up with sadness and disappointment, coated with a thick layer of betrayal.

Her head wages war on her stomach, forcing the emotions down, keeping her face neutral. Keeping her secrets safe.

Her head's just about to win when she sees it: his name in the last paragraph of the letter.

"_I know you came to me and asked me to get rid of him, but I think that's the wrong move for you Kate. Castle's given you something none of us here ever could and to throw that away is simply foolish. _

_By now I'm long gone and I can't force you to work with him anymore. So it's up to you. It's up to you to choose to stay with him. Don't do what I've seen so many cops do in the past – throw themselves into the work until one day they wake up and the job is no longer enough. _

_True partners are rare. They emerge out of the experiences you share while seeking justice. Losing your partner – not the one assigned to you but the one that finds you – is something no one should have to endure. Don't do that to yourself."_

She flips the letter over but that's it, that's everything he had left to tell her. No clues, no hints, no answers. He stayed true to his word in the hanger – he isn't going to tell her who's responsible.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing I didn't already know." But she's got an edge to her now, raw nerve rubbing on raw nerve and she can't sit anymore. She springs to her feet and marches off, leaving Esposito in her wake.

* * *

She strides over to her late Captain's office and is met with the harsh reality that he's no longer the occupier. The office is decked out with the new Captain's awards, diplomas and personal effects.

Beckett stands frozen in the doorway, unable to cross the threshold.

She gazes into the office and as she does so the furniture changes, the items on the desk morph back to the way they used to be.

And then she sees him: Montgomery sitting at his desk, thumbing through paperwork. He stops mid-shuffle, looks up at her, smiles.

"Can I help you Detective Beckett"?

Beckett jumps, awoken harshly from her dream state, the new Captain hovering behind her.

"Ah, no. I'm good."

Gates pushes past her into the office. Invading the sacred space without hesitation. "You know, we haven't had a chance to really talk yet. Did you want to catch me up?"

Beckett looks back at the desk; the image of Montgomery gone.

"Sure." Her lips move, expressing affirmation, but her body's slow to react. It takes Gates looking back at her expectantly to get her to walk through the door.

"I was pleased to see how well you did on your psych eval. You're a model Detective."

Gates shifts in her chair and Kate can tell she's about to delve into something she's not sure she wants to hear.

"I've seen what happened to you, happen to other officers. Each one handled it in his own way but every one of them came to something I like to call a 'professional crossroads'."

Gates looks up at her expectantly. Kate knows she's just checking in, making sure she's listening, but all she can imagine right now is what Gates must be like in interrogation. A bull rooting around a suspect's china shop.

"After years, sometimes decades on the job, these officers were certain of what they were doing, why they were here. And then they get shot, just like you, and all of a sudden, they're questioning everything."

Beckett, still hovering by the doorway, feels Gates eyes boring into her. She wants to see if her speech is landing.

"It's okay to question it. And it's especially okay to question it in here. But whatever you do," Gates stabs a finger toward the cityscape looming outside her window, "you never ask those questions while you're out there."

Gates' tone is only serving to rile Beckett up, but she pushes her rash self down, keeps her poker face on.

"I'm fine, sir. I appreciate the talk, but really, I haven't questioned anything. I know I belong here."

"Do you belong here with or without Richard Castle?"

Beckett wasn't expecting this line of questioning. Frankly, it hadn't even occurred to her that the new Captain harbored any feelings - ill or otherwise - about the author, since the boys had told her the minute Gates showed up she had encouraged Castle to stay out of the case and away from the twelfth.

Castle had used all his charm to dissuade her (which, now knowing the foe he was dealing with, she wouldn't have minded watching) but he had failed. Gates had somehow, despite all Castle's connections, succeeded in permanently ridding the twelfth of his presence.

If Beckett weren't so conflicted about the situation she would admire Gates for her inability to be swayed by higher powers.

She realizes, however, that this probing from her new superior may have been exactly what she needed to dig down deep and find that inner strength she used to conjure up just to get out of bed in the morning.

"I don't really see what Richard Castle has to do with my job. I was a cop before he got here, I'm still a cop now."

Beckett's voice is steady, the first time all day. Her face is straight on, eyes afire, as if to threaten Gates with her unending integrity.

"Good. Glad to hear it." Gates lowers her eyes.

Beckett won the staring contest and she's probably past the first of many hurdles Gates will throw at her as a way of testing her state of mind, but instead of leaving, she stands in the middle of the office, her eyes sweeping the surfaces.

Gates looks up, confused as to why Beckett would linger. "Detective?"

"I assume they sent Captain Montgomery's personal effects home?" She doesn't bother to look at Gates while she says this, just keeps perusing the room from a distance.

Gates nods, watching Beckett carefully. "I had them packed up and shipped to his wife. She didn't want to come in."

Beckett nods. "That's what I thought."

And with that she gives Gates a curt smile and exits. Beckett can feel Gates' eyes follow her out. She knows any ground she won today by dismissing Castle may have been lost in those last few seconds.

Gates was testing her resolve as well as her loyalty, and Kate practically came out and announced hers still belonged to her former Captain.

But if it meant she could get answers, if it meant she could follow the intuition stirring in her gut telling her Montgomery had left an unintentional trail of breadcrumbs for her to follow, then it was well worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Hope you are continuing to enjoy the story. Feel free to share whatever thoughts you have, regardless how small!_

_Per usual – I own absolutely nothing!_

_I will leave you with the immortal words of my 2 year old: "Raising kids, not easy."_

* * *

It's already past midnight when Beckett climbs the worn stairs of the twelfth. It's not unheard of for her to be at work late but it's rare that she would ever _show up_ at this hour. She crosses to her desk, just in case any ambitious detectives are lingering around.

She plops down in her chair, pretends to flip through the remaining mail, preparing a cover story in case she's confronted. But nothing, no one. The place is empty.

She looks up, scans the room, confirms she's alone.

She slips her hand into her desk drawer, pulls out a small toolkit before striding over to her Captain's office. She takes one more look around before she slips on a pair of crime scene gloves and snaps them closed around her wrists.

Her hands protected, she tries the doorknob, it's locked. Deftly she frees a tool from the small box in her hands then slips the tweezers into the keyhole. A few jiggles and the lock pops open.

The door lets out a long whine as it swings into the room. Moonlight illuminates the interior with its clean, cobalt glow.

Beckett hangs in the doorway, sweeping the room with her eyes one more time. Then, determined to work efficiently, she crosses to the credenza. She opens its cupboards, pulling out the smattering of books inside before gliding her hands along the shelves, patting their roofs with her palms.

She kicks up nothing but dust.

She moves over to the desk and roots around the wooden drawers. Removes them all so her fingertips can explore the interior wall along the back of the desk. Empty.

She hops up, steps over to the state-issued file cabinet. Mechanically she pulls each drawer out, fingering all the files, sweeping the back and floor of each drawer. She slams them shut out of frustration, all her previous caution forgotten.

They rattle and clang back into their tunnels while Beckett hovers over them. If anyone's on this floor, they will surely come to check the noises out.

It's in these moments she realizes that she would not make a very good criminal. Her heart gets ahead of her and the cunning required to avoid capture is out of her reach.

But the clock ticks and no one comes. The office stays dark. The silence covers her like an oppressive blanket reminding her how far she is willing to go to seek out the scarcest possibility of a clue. But she's driven by it. It's all she has left now.

She eyes the night sky through the blinds. The city pulsing, humming with action and anticipation. Filled with people just starting their lives.

Such a contrast to who she is, where she's at. Her life paralyzed when her mother died. Stopped in its tracks and now, barely hanging by a thread.

"_Where would __you__ hide it?"_

Montgomery's words come in, clear as day, behind her. The lilt in his voice hanging like an issued challenge. She shuts her eyes, pressure building in her head. She's immediately back in that memory – the night he invited her to help close a big case involving a corrupt police officer covering up his tracks.

"_I'm serious. What would you do if you had a piece of evidence and you knew someone in the force was dirty. Where would you hide it?"_

She slowly turns, sees Montgomery leaning against his desk. Flask in hand, dimple depressed as his cheek pulls into a smile, waiting for an answer.

She is somewhat relieved that he isn't looking at her, but instead, the faint line of her younger self, seated on the leather sofa opposite him.

Was she really that young back then? Did she really look that much like a kid fresh out of college?

She watches as her younger self reaches for the flask. All long limbs, and giddy awkwardness.

She's seen that body language before while watching Alexis bound toward her father, full of excitement and unbridled energy. So eager to make him proud.

She knows Montgomery had a similar fatherly affection for her and yet that knowledge never stopped her from striving to be bigger, do better. To show her mentor he had bet on the right officer.

"_Still waiting…?"_

"My father's cabin." She murmurs her younger self's response right along with her.

"_Okay, let's think that one through. The shit hits the fan, and you've gotta get that piece of evidence to the lawyers before they start suspecting you're dirty too. You think you gonna have time to head all the way upstate to grab that crucial item that'll save your ass?"_

Younger Beckett blanches, she never thought of that. "_Point taken. What would you do?"_

Montgomery smiles to himself, he's given this a lot of thought. _"I'd hide it right here."_

She watches as her younger self considers this idea – nodding her head, impressed.

"_That way it's in my hands in seconds. Plus, I like the poetic justice. Keeping the damming evidence right under their noses."_

Older Beckett watches as her younger self eases back into the couch, digesting all the brilliance her mentor possesses. She looks back at Montgomery, his eyes on her younger self, or….

… just behind her on the couch.

The memories fade as Beckett scurries to the sofa, frisks the cushions. Nothing. She lets her hands wander across the worn armrests and then up over to its taut backside. Her fingers graze a bump, they return, graze it again.

Beckett pulls out a razor from her case and gently cuts into the leather. A small slit only her pinky can fit through. She wriggles her finger around until she stretches the leather enough for her to get leverage underneath the bump and wiggle it toward her. Slowly she ushers it out of the slit.

The moonlight hits her palm and the shine of a small key, crooks and ridges still crisp, twinkles back at her.

* * *

Beckett rounds the corner with speed before stopping abruptly in front of a tiny storefront, squeezed between a grocer and a department store, a few blocks from her apartment. It's drizzling and the rain has peppered her auburn curls with droplets of moisture.

She compulsively strokes the key in her hand while she watches the ancient locksmith amble up to his gated storefront. After sifting through a heavy keychain, he unlocks the iron and yanks it up, sending a rumbling through the metal as it careens into its housing. Without expending the energy to look behind him, he waves her in.

She slaps the key down on the marred countertop inside the cramped store. Keys jingle as it lands, a cacophony of light metal on metal, like a wind chime made solely out of keys. A grizzled hand reaches out for it, holds it up to the light. Reads "DO NOT DUPLICATE" clearly stamped on the end.

He looks at her over his glasses. She can tell it's not the first time someone's asked for a copy of a key they shouldn't have.

"I don't need any duplicates. I just want to know what kind of key it is."

He lets out an exasperated sigh and she realizes that he finds her request more annoying than just making the illegal copy. But he's scrutinizing it; fingering the shaft, analyzing the ridges, eyeing the base.

"Long shaft, short collar, single cut." He twists it around, inspecting it from each angle, weighs it in his palm. "Brass, nickel plated, minimal striations..." He looks up, sees he needs to translate – "Hardly used."

He sets it down in front of her. "It could be anything."

The disappointment is on her face before she can prevent it. She had no idea she was holding her breath, so desperate for a lead.

He picks the key back up out of pity.

"But if someone held a gun to my head, I'd say it was for a mailbox. Not a post office – they stamp their keys U.S.P.S. - and not a chain, they put their logo on everything. But a small, independent place."

She audibly exhales, so thrilled he's given her a bone to chew on, however small.

"Thank you." She pockets the key safely into her jeans, then turns to exit the shop, already on the hunt.

He calls after her, "In bocca al lupo."

She turns back, confused. She speaks a little Russian, no Italian.

"Means 'good luck'. You'll need it. They say you could fill the harbor twice over with the keys for every lock in the city."

* * *

She stands in front of the twelfth precinct. All stoic grey concrete surrounded by sparkling towers of glass. Justice dwarfed by big business.

If her mother hadn't been murdered she might be a lawyer inhabiting one of those shiny temples every day, making ten times the money, running in a completely different social stratosphere, wondering what kind of person she had become.

She knows this city can take you over if you're not careful. It's the reason New Yorkers are so hard. You either stake your ground and fight for it every minute of every day, or you slowly buy into the world you're surrounded by – changing, altering, trimming yourself to fit in. Tiny pieces of your soul the currency you use to pay for the privilege to live in the big apple.

Once her mom was killed, the latter was never an option. That's the thing about murder: if it happens to someone you love your soul is forever branded by the experience_. _And then you could never lose it, or sell it. It's a heavy weight forever wrapped around your heart, practically sinking it.

So there's no question, the precinct is her home, and she'll fight the city for it day and night.

She closes her eyes, files through her memories, extracts the one of her in uniform, standing outside this building for the very first time. Cap on, blues pressed, she hovers in the same spot she is now, taking in the view, knowing she has to move, get inside before roll call, but unable to budge from her spot.

"_It won't bite."_

_Young Beckett raises her head to the voice. Montgomery beams next to her._

"_First day?" he taunts._

_Young Beckett's head falls – how will she ever make detective if she's this easy to read? "Yeah. I was just… taking a moment."_

"_Okay. But you can't slay any dragons sitting out here on the stoop. Gotta get inside for the good stuff."_

_She smiles. "Thanks."_

_He extends a hand. "Detective Montgomery."_

"_I've heard of you, your solve rate is impressive." She says it – not trying to impress him, simply stating a fact. _

_"Glad to hear the rumors I'm spreading about myself are getting traction."_

"_No need to create rumors when you have statistics on your side."_

_He pauses, sizing her up. She can tell his detective instincts are kicking in. He recognizes something about her, in her. _

"_I'll keep that in mind, Officer…?"_

"_Beckett, Kate Beckett."_

_And she could swear she sees fear - for half a second, maybe less - swipe across his face. He replaces it almost immediately with an effervescent smile. _

"_Officer Beckett. I'll have to remember that. See you inside."_

_She watches him jog up the stone steps, excited to slay some dragons of his own. And her look says it all: She wants to be him. _

Montgomery slips into the building and Young Beckett fades away – leaving present day Kate shaking the memory off her.

She takes out her phone.

"Hey, Ryan. Yeah, I'm not gonna come in today."

She waits for his response, the natural volley of phone etiquette. "No, no. I'll be fine. Just woke up with a touch of the flu. Figured it'd be better if I didn't give it to everyone at the station. You'll tell Gates?"

She can tell he's weighing his options. He clearly doesn't believe her, but she dialed Ryan's extension on purpose. He was the least likely to confront her.

He gives her the answer she wants. "Thanks. I'll be back tomorrow. Don't let Javi screw anything up while I'm gone."

She clicks the phone shut and pivots away from her office, turning her back on her duty as she heads out into the slick city streets.

* * *

Slowly, thoughtfully, she circles the precinct. Walking the blocks right around the building, and then widening the circumference. One lap at a time.

She navigates the boulevards, many of them teeming with all those professionals hustling to work. Racing into their buildings, running to catch the train. All of them trying to milk every minute they can out of the day.

She maneuvers around them, slips through them. She has her own destination in mind but she has to wait to see it. She can't run to it, it has to come to her. In a cramped storefront, in a mom and pop outfit, in a tiny alcove shop. If she walks too fast, she may miss it.

She's on her own methodical safari, she can't be rushed.

As her eyes roam from the neon lights to the sale signs to the sandwich boards looking for the place Montgomery would've rented this mailbox, she wonders if any of the people around her ever stop to think what they are running so fast for?

She imagines what it must feel like to be in that kind of a rush – needing to be somewhere that important.

Before she can censor herself an image of Castle pops into her head and all of a sudden that part of her who so badly wants to run to him is in control.

She curses herself for letting this thought take over. But her mind's already filling in the details. Her sprinting to his apartment, waiting outside his door, palms sweaty, her heart in her throat. The door opening, the crisp edge of his shirt just becoming visible on the other side.

No, no, no. She forces it out. She's doing this alone. Without him. He doesn't deserve to be dragged into this mess. It's for his own benefit.

But the guilt is already coming on strong. Reminding her that he put himself out there, admitted everything to her, and she disappeared on him.

She stops suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. She won't do this to herself. She made her choice, now she has to stick with it.

But the crowds are still thick, so she steps into a doorway to regroup before trudging on.

And thank god she does, because it's only from this angle she can see inside the storefront across the street. There's no sign, only an advertisement for cheap photocopies and faxes. But through the skewed racks of ancient Hallmark cards she glimpses the set of bronze mailboxes along the back wall.

Her heart rate spikes as she lunges into the street. Irate drivers smack their horns at her, but she's too impatient to wait for a stoplight.

She frantically dodges oncoming traffic from both directions, another foolish need to risk her life in order to solve the end of her mother's.

* * *

The wall at the back of the store is narrow, only allowing for a total of twelve boxes.

She pulls out the key, inserts it in the first box. She tries to turn it, nothing. She pulls it out, places it in the next one, turns, nothing. She does this ten more times, her possibilities waning, but the eleventh box clicks differently than the others. She can hear it as it slips into the keyhole, the grooves lining up, the tumblers adjusting to an old friend. And when her wrist twists the lock slides with her and the door swings open.

She looks inside, the razor edge of an envelope waits for her. She reaches in, plucks it from its nook, looks down and sees the familiar scribble of Montgomery's home address on the back of the envelope. She runs a thumb over his distinct "g".

She inhales deeply and flips it over, waiting to see whom it's addressed to. She sways, her body suddenly light with recognition… and confusion.

This letter is addressed to Richard Castle.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here's the latest. Per usual I would love to hear your thoughts. What's working for you, what don't you like? Any comment large or small is welcome!_

_Enjoy your Tuesdays!_

* * *

The loft is too quiet. He's never allowed it to get quite so tranquil in all his time living there. He's always filled it with music and friends and laughter. But Alexis is off at school and his mother is out at rehearsal, regaling her castmates with stories (or embellishments more accurately) about her life in the theater.

Both women larger than life. Both of them trying to fill up the loft for him since his spark dimmed and he withdrew. He's only the shell of the world-renowned novelist who used to fly to Paris for the weekend to sip champagne from a woman's stiletto.

What happened to that guy? Where'd he go?

It's been three months since he's seen her. She said she'd call. She promised. But he realizes now that promise was empty. Filled with the desire to appease him but in no way based on her own need to include him in her recovery, or her life.

He doesn't kid himself, he will not hear from her. He knows this now but it took him a full six weeks before he realized it. He kicks himself for not seeing it sooner.

The first week was easy, she was busy with physical therapy, rest, recovery. He could give her that. The second week he blamed on Josh. He had long since thought Josh sensed an impenetrable bond between him and Kate and he was fully convinced Josh was trying to keep her to himself. The third week was when the doubt started to creep in. But he held out, made excuses for her. If she were able, she'd call. If Josh would let her, she'd ask him to visit her. If she could, she would get to him.

In the fourth week he picked up the phone to call her. And he would've too if Alexis hadn't said something that he couldn't shake. "Don't pressure her, Dad. She'll come to you when she's ready." It was so practical; it made so much sense. He knew how Beckett reacted anytime he pressed her and it was never good.

She is the wait-and-see type and he is the impulsive, just-do-it personality. He'd many a time succeeded at pushing her away by rushing in. So for the first time in a long while he found himself stuck. He couldn't call but he can't move on either.

He just admitted to himself that he loved her right before she got shot and now that information strangles him because he can't put it anywhere, do anything with it. She won't let him see her, so it just sits there. Like dead weight wrapped around his throat, constricting his windpipe.

By the fifth week he resorted to writing because he couldn't stand doing nothing and because Gina was finding new and interesting ways (think calling his cell every hour on the hour) to get him to meet his deadlines.

He could write the mystery. He could plot out the twists and turns. And he could be ruthless to Nikki Heat. He knocked her about, like a twig in the wind. Shoving her into situations she was completely unprepared for and illequipped to handle. Fear washing over her as she realized how impossible it would be to get out of this dank hole/ locked shipping container/villain's lair he somehow justified throwing her in.

But one day during the sixth week, after several sleepless nights, he found himself at his laptop typing things his conscious mind had not yet decided to put down.

It's an action sequence - Nikki and Rook are chasing a jewel thief inside an abandoned warehouse – so the scene is all about hand to hand combat and imminent danger. But out of nowhere he suddenly found himself typing Rook looking at Nikki, just stopping in the middle of everything, letting the thief get away.

"Why did you leave me?"

He stared at his screen, so confused. Where did that come from? But before he could even register what his subconscious mind was doing, his fingers flew across the keyboard again with Nikki's response.

"I wish I knew."

And that's where he left his cursor for the last month and a half while he crawled back into bed. Keeping himself as quiet and small as possible.

That's where he still is when he hears the knock on the door.

* * *

If he'd caught enough sleep over the last few weeks he would've known it was her knock. She had a special rhythm all her own. It made his heart skip every time he heard it in the past.

But he's exhausted, despite all his time spent in bed, and his head is so clouded he only _thinks_ the knock sounds familiar. So he rolls over and ignores it. Convinced it's just his mind playing tricks on him.

But it won't go away, it just gets louder. And now it's throbbing in his head.

Sharp noises are not his friend; ignoring it is no longer an option. He snatches up the robe he tossed at the end of the bed. Too weary to bother getting dressed in the morning, he's found it acceptable to reply to the occasional visitor in his bathrobe.

He drags himself to a seated position, using the tiny bit of energy he has left to pull his arms through the sleeves.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap… It won't stop.

"I'm coming!" he shouts, wayyyyy too loud. His head aches in response. So unused to hearing his own voice these days, especially at that volume.

He runs his fingers through his hair on the way to the door, which leaves it worse than when he started. With a fuck-it-all motion, he takes both hands and screws it up more.

Rap, rap, rap, rap.

"Just stop!"

He flings open the door as his exhaustion turns the corner into frustration.

That's when, for the first time in three months, he lays eyes on her.

* * *

They both freeze in front of each other. No one moves, everything is still. As if time is slowing just so they can both take each other in.

Him with his mussed hair, rumpled t-shirt, coffee-stained robe.

Her with fury in her eyes, letter clenched in her fist. So angry, unbelievably angry and yet, something else too. Something creeping in despite how hard she's fighting it. Something that reminds him ever so slightly of guilt.

"What the hell is this?" It's the kind of line she should scream, he thinks, but she just hisses it at him as she shoves the letter in his face.

He reads his name, penned out across the front. Why is she bringing him his mail? And why is she so pissed about it?

"Thanks" he says, cautiously. His tone verges on apathetic.

He reaches for the envelope - it is his mail after all - but she swipes it away before he can take it.

"Okay. Keep it."

And he's so resigned that he considers shutting the door on her. His arm, already ahead of him, pushes the door in slightly. That's when he sees what can only be described as true panic igniting in the jade pools of her eyes.

He brakes his arm, keeping the door ajar. Even in true despair he can't deny her what she so badly wants.

She doesn't hesitate. Instead she brazenly moves past him into his apartment, striding in as if she owns the place, as if she never abandoned it.

She turns to him, standing tall and determined and ever so real in the middle of the room. Too stunned to move, he hovers by the door.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

She waves the letter around. "What is this? What have you been doing behind my back?"

He shakes his head. He's more awake than he's been in the past three months and a sadistic part of him is thrilled she's in his living room but he'll be damned if he's going to stand there and take her indignation. He leaves the door open as he walks past her.

"I trust you can see yourself out."

He slides a glance her way as he takes the circuitous route back to his bedroom, leaving plenty of space between them.

He observes the wheels turning in her head. He knows that look. The one where she's processing new information – information she can't believe is real.

It occurs to him, even in his deadened state, that he's completely thrown her. She came here looking for a fight and he's not giving it to her.

Good. Let her see what it feels like to be left hanging.

But he's underestimated her determination. He's almost clear of her and then she makes a move, stepping directly in his path. Not giving up. Not letting him escape.

"You owe me an explanation."

He bows his head, lets out a small laugh. It's not funny but right now, after all this time he can't help seeing the irony in all this. To finally have her here, like he's dreamed about so many times but instead of telling him how sorry she is, she's looking at him like he's the enemy.

Worst part, he can feel the heat already generating between them_. _Static building. Temperatures rising. If he stays here, this close to her, he's not sure he won't combust.

He can withstand the heat, he thinks, but knowing he's alone in experiencing it, stabs him harder than her accusations.

He takes a half step back to lessen the effect and watches as her look of indignation turns to confusion. Her body leans toward him, like a magnet longing for its mate.

"I don't know what that letter is. I've never seen it before. Who's it from?"

"Montgomery."

He notes how the name leaves her lips: staccato and breathy, as if it's hard for her to speak.

"He sent me a letter too. But he sent yours to his P.O. Box near the station." He notes that she finishes her statement stronger than she started. She's back to revving up for battle.

"He had a P.O. box?"

She nods in affirmation. "I found a key to it in his office."

"His office was cleaned out months ago."

She nods impatiently, willing him to catch up to her. "It was hidden."

"You searched his office?" He's assessing her as he says this, his mind churning. He knows she's angry, but how far is she willing to go? How reckless has she been already? "Gates okay with that?"

"She doesn't know."

Hmmm. So this is _that_ Kate. He's seen her before, albeit sparingly. The rash one, the one who can't let go no matter how destructive it is to chase it down. She's spiraling out of control and she's come to him because...? Maybe because he's the only one she's let see her in this kind of state before, who's continued to work with her through it.

Or maybe because she thinks he can help her find the new lead she's been hunting so desperately for.

"So you're telling me you have no idea why he left this for you there?"

He shakes his head. Even though he realizes now what she's really come for, what she _really_ wants, he's not inclined to give it to her. She thinks dangling something fascinating like an unopened letter from her late Captain is going to spark that curiosity-killed-the-cat part of him. She thinks this will suck him back into this with her.

He brushes past her, heads toward his study. Is it perverse that he enjoys imagining she's watching him, eyes incredulous, lips parted, jaw-dropped, at a complete loss for words? Her hope dying a little more with each inch of space he puts between them?

"If I were you, I'd open it." He tosses that back to her, over his shoulder. He knows that must hurt, just a little. He won't apologize. She drove him to this apathetic state. This is her fault.

"Wait." It's tiny. It's so small. But the loft is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"Why?" he says, without turning around, already losing his resolve. Goddamnit, how does she have such power over him?

"Because I don't want to do this alone."

And there it is, the words that give him the motivation to turn around and face her.

"No, thank you." He doesn't say it to hurt her, the edge has already left his voice. It's just the truth. He's been through hell and back these last few months and he simply does not possess the energy to go through it all over again.

"What?" The word tumbles out of her, tinged with hurt and confusion.

He sees her searching for an explanation. She literally can't compute his rejection, which in turn, reignites his hurt.

"You think I'm gonna feed this desire you have to get yourself killed? No. Thank you."

"But…"

"But what Kate?" And he's got her, he can feel it. It's so empowering, like an elixir that eases his heartache. He's immediately addicted and wants more. So he walks back, closing the distance between them.

"I waited for you. I waited three, torturously long months for you. And you gave me nothing."

He zeroes in, honing in on his target.

"Do you know that I watched you die in that ambulance? Do you have any idea what that felt like?"

She can't look at him, she just bows her head, shaking it no.

He can see how much of an impact he's having. How hard she's listening to him. He breathes easier, oxygen filling his lungs deeper than any time he can remember in the recent past. He steps closer and closer, milking every inch, until he hovers over her.

"Then don't come here with your unopened letters and ridiculous accusations. Don't come at me with any of that bullshit. I didn't do anything wrong and I don't deserve it."

It's just what he wanted to say. It's exactly how he feels and he got it out and it didn't get twisted and she's heard it.

He won! He won this round!

He's looking down at the back of her head. He can see it swim ever so slightly. He thinks he may have stunned her and she's searching desperately for some reasonable response_. _

But that's when he notices the drops of water on the floor.

Just a few puddles staining the hardwood. Plink! He watches another droplet join its friends.

There's no denying it now. She's hiding from him not to buy time to formulate her defense but to conceal how upset she is.

He closes his eyes, winning suddenly the most meaningless thing. He shifts closer and slowly, cautiously wraps his arms around her. She leans into him, it's the tiniest movement but it feels like a dam breaking.

"I'm sorry." It's muffled by his shoulder, but he hears it. Hears it clear as day.

He surprises even himself, when his voice comes out low and calm. A part of him he hasn't accessed in weeks. Flowing out of him effortlessly – his true voice, finally come back to him.

"I know."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I have two amazing betas to thank for the next several chapters: CastleWriter16 & Katrina. These would not be as far along without their meticulous editing and thoughtful reactions._

_Thanks to everyone who has taken a moment to respond to the story up until now. Your comments are invaluable. It helps me gauge exactly how successful I've been at communicating my intentions with each chapter._

_As usual your thoughts are always welcome. Feel free to let me know what is working for you and/or what is not._

_And finally - I do not own a thing! These characters are the property of Andrew Marlowe & ABC. I am just borrowing them for the time being._

* * *

She cradles the mug at her chin, letting the steam wash over her face, working its way through her emotions as it goes. Her eyes are still puffy from crying. Her cheeks are dappled red, still flushed with emotion.

She's perched on the edge of one of his barstools, legs dangling down beneath her, too short to reach the floor. She feels like a kid again. As if time has rewound itself and she's no longer carrying the burden of her mother's unsolved case on her shoulders. Still light and airy from a life full of possibility and adventure.

He told her to wait for him here, that they would open the letter together, but that he absolutely _had_ to take a shower first. She didn't want him to leave her there but she acquiesced because, frankly, at that moment she would've done anything he had asked of her.

She can't believe she never thought to open the letter. When he threw that in her face (and really, she can't blame him) it was a total surprise to realize that it hadn't even occurred to her. She was so shocked when she saw his name on the envelope that the only thing she could think of was to confront him.

She has no interest in picking at her true feelings right now but if she did, she would have to admit she never wanted to open the letter without him. This is a journey she has long since abandoned doing on her own. Somehow, despite her insistence he stay out of it from the beginning, she feels he is the only person who truly gets what this case means to her.

She came to his loft with nothing but senseless conviction and overblown ego. She had been so sure she would school him into submission. Yet what had happened? He had completely derailed her, pointing out her hypocrisy, demanding she give _him_ an explanation for _her_ behavior.

If any other person had done this to her she would have left immediately, would've run home to lick her wounds, to a safe place where she could rebuild the wall, stronger than before.

Instead, she finds herself sitting at his kitchen island, waiting for him. A warmth spreading through her body, not just from the tea but from that part of her that is thrilled she has him back.

So the anger that she should have from being shown up, from having the shiny finish peeled from her falsely constructed arguments, is gone. It was completely released when he wrapped his big arms around her ribs and held her so close she could feel his heart beating, slow and steady, calming hers down with it.

She lifts the cup up to her mouth, her lashes dipping down to brush the tops of her cheeks as she inhales the heat. In the darkness, she lets the steam slip between her lips and for the briefest second she imagines the steam is him. Him pressing his lips against hers.

Her body shivers, the image so visceral it sends a wave of electricity through her. She so rarely allows herself the luxury of envisioning him this way. She is taken off guard by how explicit her imagination is, and how her body manifests all of its creations with a very real, very physical, response.

While she basks in the glow, her fingertips and toes tingling with anticipation, she realizes what's missing. That antagonistic voice of hers isn't bringing up all her fears - _he'll get bored of me, he'll be reckless with my heart, he only __thinks__ he loves me._

She's been listening to that voice for months but she's only now starting to question it. Are all these slanderous thoughts she has about him true? Or are they born out of some deeper impulse that's compelling her to stay away from him?

She lets the questions swirl in her head, dancing around her fantasies. She will allow herself this one indulgence while he is safely tucked away in the other room. The distance between them safe enough.

* * *

He cracks the door an inch and peers out into his kitchen, watching her sip the tea he made for her. She seems so fragile, balanced atop his kitchen stool. So unlike the robust and confident Kate that visits him in his dreams. This one looks as if a pin-prick could completely deflate her. How come he never noticed that before?

He shuts the door, satisfied that her presence is real and not just a mirage his brain conjured up to help ease the pain.

His blood pulses, stinging his limbs awake as it goes, the reality of the recent events sinking in. He had been preparing for a life without Kate Beckett but that table was suddenly turned and in what must have been no more than a ten minute exchange, his life is traveling in the opposite direction.

He stands there, paralyzed. He has no idea where to start. He walks in a circle – completely out of the habit of how to do this. Shower. Right. That's the next logical step.

As he waits for the water to warm, he recalls her supple body in the other room, just a few feet away. His mind flickers with inappropriate snapshots. Why, oh why, is it so hard to compartmentalize his attraction for her? Why can't he stuff that in a box and just be there for her without wanting anything physical in return? It would make everything so much easier.

When the steaming water sluices over his body he is powerless against his head, already dreaming up all sorts of images of things she could do to him in this shower. Too tired to fight it, he lets his mind wander, hoping that by allowing his thoughts to play now, they will be purged by the time he's finished.

* * *

He emerges, freshly shaven, hair still wet. A light sweater clings to his chest.

He pauses in the doorway, her anger so fresh on his mind he's not sure it's okay to enter his own living room. She hears his curtailed footsteps and turns, a smile dawning across her lips.

"You make the best tea."

"I should stop bringing you coffee then. Would save me a bundle."

He takes this opportunity to cross to the kitchen counter. He sees the letter sitting next to her, seal still applied.

"You waited."

"That was the deal."

"I wasn't sure you'd be able to honor it."

She sighs. "You think so little of me?"

"When it comes to your mother's case I've stopped trying to predict anything about you." He knows it sounds like a criticism but it's not intended as one. It's just honest.

She bows her head in acceptance. As if she's no longer interested in disproving his take on things, as if she's finally standing with him again.

He picks up the letter, hands it to her.

"What do you say, partner? Ready to find out our next lead?" It's a peace offering, a way for him to tell her he's ready to move on.

She shakes her head no. "You open it."

He hesitates - is she letting him take the lead in a veiled attempt to make him feel included? Or is she just looking for someone to take some of the weight of this case off her shoulders? Her posture – crouched at his countertop, body drooping over her tea like a wilting sunflower – seems to indicate the latter.

It's in his hands now – both figuratively and literally - and there's no point dragging it out. He rips through the seal, rendering it ineffective. He extracts a single sheet of paper from the envelope before reading the words scrawled across the center.

He flips it over, examines the void on the other side.

"What does it say?"

"Just a name. Albus Smith." He hands it over for her to evaluate. "Why would he leave me a letter with just a name in it, in a post office box I knew nothing about?"

She inspects the note, tracing her finger along the edges, looking for any anomalies, her investigative instincts kicking in.

"He sent you one too?"

"Yeah. Mine was… a goodbye letter." She pulls it out of her pocket and stuffs it in his hand. He flips through the pages, taking in the endless ink.

"I think I'm offended."

He turns to the last paragraph. Sees his name in it, his curiosity instantly piqued.

She looks up, registers what he's reading and panics for a second before placing a fragile hand over the text, covering it up. The heat of her hand transferring through the pages onto his below.

"Some of it was… private."

"Sure." He hands it back to her, not wanting to prolong her embarrassment. She withdraws the letter, along with her hand. But the extraction is slow, and he absorbs the warmth from her fingers as they brush along his palm.

"So why send you a goodbye letter and send me a name?"

A minute passes before he realizes that while he's been ruminating she's gotten way too quiet. He looks up and watches as her teeth dig deep into her lip, pinching the blood out of it. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing."

He squints his eyes at her, letting her know he doesn't believe her.

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "When Montgomery called you… to tell you to meet him at the hanger, what did he say?"

He should've known she would ask him about this. Of course she'd be curious about their conversation, her mentor and her partner talking about her fate. But he didn't, and now he doesn't know what to say, so he sticks to the facts.

"Not much. He told me to meet him at the hanger. That I had to stay back so that he could talk to you when you got there but that when he signaled I was to come get you and take you outside."

He watches as her brain starts to fill in the details, evoking the memories that go along with his words.

"Must've killed you."

"You're telling me. If you'd worn heels I might never have gotten a hold of you."

She smirks and he feels a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Maybe she's missed his levity? His ability to find humor in almost any situation? He used to be so sure that was one of the things she loved – liked, liked, liked – about him. Ugh, this kind of thinking is going to get him in nothing but trouble.

"No, I mean, not being able to get him to give you the full story."

"When it comes to the story or you, I'll always pick you." And the ease he gained with the levity is lost. His statement hangs there, alone.

What he would give to know what she thought when he said things like that. He doesn't regret it, he never regrets telling her the truth. But he laments how hard his heart falls when the comment is left unrequited.

It was so easy in the beginning. He was attracted to her, and he could tell (despite her continuous exclamations otherwise) she was attracted to him as well. It wasn't until he saw how she felt about her mother's case that he realized he was developing serious feelings for her.

All that strength and fear, jumbled together in one big emotional stew. Never before had he seen someone that vulnerable be that courageous. From that moment on he never looked at her the same. Sure, the lust was still there, he was human after all, but he had seen the depths of her and now he couldn't shake the image, no matter how hard he tried.

"Albus Smith. I think I'd remember the name if I'd heard it before," she says, tapping the paper. In true Kate fashion, she deals with the emotion of the moment by abandoning it for the case at hand. He both admires and hates that about her.

"Could it be someone he worked with back when he was a beat cop? Before you were on the force?"

"I dunno, maybe. I've heard of many cops and lawyers named Smith – but none with the first name Albus."

"Maybe one of their fathers? Montgomery could've known their parents?"

"Possibly. I'd have to go through his cases to know for sure."

"I'll get my jacket."

She hesitates.

"What?"

"I called in sick. I can't really show up there now."

"The records room is in the basement, right?"

"Yeah, but…"

"Let me get the key from Ryan. I'll meet you down there."

"What makes you think you can just waltz in without an officer escorting you?"

"You haven't heard? I saved a cop in the line of duty. I've got juice now."

He smiles before extending his hand, fingers gathered together, pointing up. She laughs, that sweet sound emanating from her lips. She mirrors his gesture, lightly taps her fingers on the top of his.

Together they say it: "Booyah."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Per usual – Andrew Marlowe & ABC own everything - __I own nothing (other than my kid... until she's eighteen). _

_Hope this continues to entertain – if not, let me know! Thx!_

* * *

"Nothing in this one." She watches as he tosses the file on top of the ever-expanding stack of irrelevant material they've constructed over the last few hours.

Montgomery was on the force for over two decades and he has the case records to prove it. Castle arrived at the table located in the back of the records room with a large pile of paperwork, and then he went back for more. It took several trips, several trips she couldn't help him with unless she wanted the officer up front to notice her in the precinct on her "sick" day.

It occurs to her that he does all of this for her.

When she first met him, she wrote him off as an overgrown rich kid, selfish and self-centered with no idea what the real world felt like. She thought for sure he'd be gone in a month, two tops.

But he had surprised her. He was good at looking at the evidence and extrapolating all its possible implications.

That was the excuse she used to keep him around in the beginning. A way for her to justify his presence without acknowledging the little skip her heart did when he found her in the morning, extra coffee in hand, smile brimming along his lips.

She enjoyed (more than she was willing to admit) the way he always made her feel like she was the only person in the room.

It wasn't until she saw him at home, decked out in laser tag gear along with his daughter, that she could no longer hide how much she liked him – the entire him – the whole package. Sure he had the reckless nature of a four year old in need of a nap but she almost felt like that was a persona he played up for others. As if fame had demanded he take on the role of Eccentric Novelist – funny, adventurous, flirtatious, exciting – and he was just holding up his end of the bargain.

But underneath, he was so much more. He was a father and a parent. He knew how to make the tough decisions. He could be a responsible adult and somehow, despite all that, he retained his wonder and excitement at the world.

She used to possess a similar sense of adventure, but minute she found out about her mom she had shelved it, pocketed it away as it no longer felt appropriate to have those kinds of aspirations when your mother has been taken from you and no one has yet paid the price for it. Paid the price they so dearly deserved to-

"Hmm, maybe here?" His head pops up. He catches her staring at him. "You okay?"

"Mm hm. Whaddya find?"

"You look… a little… angry."

"Sorry, just having a moment."

"Not at me, I hope?"

"No." But she reads his concern. Makes total sense; she did just unleash on him only a few hours ago.

She extends her hand, laying it over his. "I'm done with that. I promise."

His eyes search hers on a quest to see if she means it. So she keeps her hand where it is for a moment longer to make sure he really gets it. His palm falls open, blooming underneath her fingers. Her body releases a tiny quake but she keeps her hand steady. She keeps it suspended over his until his fingers give into gravity's force, slowly curling around hers**.**

Her body tenses and then suddenly, her hand withdraws. It wasn't a conscious choice, more of a knee jerk reaction. His tenderness, too sweet to accept.

His eyes drop, along with her heart. She's kicking herself for doing that to him. One day soon she's convinced he'll tell her he can't do this anymore.

"Here, 'A. Smith.' And here too." God bless him, that moment isn't now.

He picks up two separate case files then flips to the signed coroner's reports in both, lines them up in front of her. She reads two signatures followed by the typed name "A. Smith".

"A medical examiner? Like Lanie?"

"A medical examiner, a co-worker, a friend… just like Lanie."

* * *

She knows all the M.E.s at the county morgue and this guy's name is not ringing a bell.

Albus Smith may not work there anymore but it doesn't mean there aren't people there who remember him. At least that's what Castle had said on the drive over when she had uttered her concern out loud.

So that's how she finds herself walking into the autopsy room at the City Morgue with photocopies of Montgomery's case files in her bag and Castle at her side. Just like the old days. The memory makes her both elated and nauseas at the same time. Everything the same yet so unbelievably different.

"Kate!"

It comes from behind her but Kate identifies Lanie's girlish trill before turning around.

"I thought you were-" Lanie stops herself mid-sentence when she sees Castle is with her.

"Hey, you!" She opens her arms and gives him a welcome back hug. "Long time, no see!"

Kate observes how easily Lanie melts into him. It's ridiculous she knows, but a twinge of jealousy ekes its way into her heart.

Lanie smiles as she releases him then looks at Kate before leaning in and whispering, "You didn't tell me you two had made up?"

Castle leaps in. "Turns out I need to know how autopsies were performed in the eighties. A little research for the latest book. Got any medical examiners around from way back then?"

"This isn't the library Castle. You can't show up and check out an M.E. for the afternoon."

Castle lets out a squeal. He had no idea Perlmutter was sitting behind him, sterilizing his autopsy tools.

Lanie perks up "Perlmutter, you were here before me. What about the guy who hired you?"

"Al? Retired over a decade ago."

"Al…?" Castle presses.

"Al Smith. Good man, better doctor. Spent over two decades here."

Castle's face lights up like a Christmas tree. He turns to Beckett to share the good news and possibly an I-told-you-so glance. "Any idea where I can find him?"

"Yeah, sure. Here's his card." Perlmutter tosses a business card across the sheeted body splayed out on his table.

Castle picks it up. "Ralph's Rug Emporium?"

Perlmutter rolls his eyes. "And the New York Book Review called you a master of subtlety."

"You read my reviews?"

Kate smiles – leave it to Castle's ego to turn a dig into a compliment.

"Shelly in the front office should have his home address," Lanie suggests, since the deadlock with Perlmutter isn't leading anywhere. "The city makes sure to keep all records up to date in the event a cold case resurfaces and we need to be reached for trial."

Castle smirks at Perlmutter who returns the gesture with an exasperated headshake. It's clear who's won this round.

"I'll talk to Shelly," Kate offers. "I've been meaning to ask her about her wedding anyway."

Kate pushes through the heavy metal doors and then stops, waiting for Castle to join her. When he doesn't come, she turns and looks as Lanie reaches out for him.

"You be careful with her."

She watches the concern wash over Lanie's face as she leans into him, fleshing out her comment.

"She looks like she's all put back together but her head's still in recovery."

Kate cocks her head. So that's what people think of her? She's back but she's still weak? She survived but she's still a victim?

She observes her partner as he nods in collusion with her best friend. Two people bonded in a conspiracy to keep her happy… and safe.

* * *

The car ride out to the boroughs is quiet. At many points Castle thinks about saying something but he cuts himself off when he sees just how lost in thought she is, staring out into the road ahead of them.

He decides to let her work things out in her head – convinced it's nothing more than that - but then she starts methodically rubbing her side. The side, he assumes, where the doctors stitched her back up. He watches as her fingers work themselves into a rhythmic kneading motion that lasts the rest of the trip.

This, combined with Lanie's comment, weighs on him heavily. How careful does he need to be with Kate? Sure, he's felt pretty raw himself over the past few months, but he hadn't barely survived a bullet to the heart.

Suddenly he feels unbelievably guilty for telling her he loved her in that moment. It wasn't planned, he knows that. It stumbled out – well, leapt out more accurately. He just couldn't hold it in. It was so clear and he needed her to know it.

In retrospect, however, it seems like she was fighting for her life and he just added his needs on top of that. He had egotistically thought that if she knew how he felt it would give her the inspiration she needed to pull through. He laughs at himself. Only a narcissistic novelist could make himself believe his confession would have such power.

Lanie was right, physically she was whole again, but mentally he wasn't so sure. That moment they shared back in his loft… it was unlike anything they'd been through before.

It seems (dare he let himself think) that despite her bravado, she came to him out of a deep-rooted need to see him. But because he was hurt, he had lashed out and punished her for it.

He promises from here on out he's going to stop putting his own petty problems first and just be there for her.

Yes, he's dying of a broken heart, but she died first.

* * *

Kate glides her Crown Vic into a red lined street corner and tosses her police decal into the windshield. Such a small detail but it's one of the things that ignites the giddy boy inside of him. He's riding (writing) with the cops now – he can park anywhere.

He hops out of the car and runs around to her side. Grabs her coffee for her as she pitches her weight forward and rises out of her seat.

She looks at him, confused - distrustful perhaps? - about where this sudden chivalrous behavior is coming from.

"What? I can't be a gentleman?" he proposes, trying out some humor to dissolve her somber mood.

"You're a lot of things but a gentleman is not the first word that comes to mind."

A smile creeps across her face. Good – it worked! She never could resist an opportunity to put him in his place.

He smiles back, the old rapport restored. And look! Her fingers have left her side. She's no longer tracing a target around her wound.

He steps back to assess her now that she's out of the car. He can only see Kate Beckett, the warrior. He won't fool himself, there's a fragile person floating just below the surface, but he's pleased as punch she's got her armor back on. He won't have to worry quite so much about what they are walking into if he knows she's dressed for battle.

Together they climb the stairs of the Brooklyn brownstone and ring the bell. It takes a while, but an elderly woman finally opens the door, bewildered to have visitors show up on her doorstep in the middle of the day.

"Hi, we're looking for a Dr. Albus Smith? Used to work at the County Morgue?"

Mrs. Smith peers over her bifocals, evaluating them. The ever-suspicious nature of a hardened New Yorker.

"Who needs to know?"

Kate pulls out her badge. "I'm from the N.Y.P.D."

"Where's he from?" Mrs. Smith stabs a bony finger toward Castle.

Castle conjures up his most charming smile as he extends his hand. "Richard Castle, ma'am. I'm just uh… a friend."

Mrs. Smith gives Castle a once over, ignoring his gesture. "In my day you weren't encouraged to mix business with pleasure."

"Just one of the many ways society has taken a turn for the worse," Castle suggests, as he withdraws his hand in defeat. "Still, we'd like to know if Dr. Albus Smith lives here?"

"Not anymore. He passed away several months ago."

He slides a sideways glance at Kate as she registers the news – yet another dead end, literally.

Castle quickly attempts to salvage the conversation. "Do you remember a Captain Montgomery? They used to work together."

"Roy? Yes, Al adored him! I was so sad to hear about what happened. He was such a young man."

"Did your husband ever mention anything Captain Montgomery… Roy, and him were working on?" Kate probes.

Mrs. Smith smiles to herself. "Roy would come over for dinner on the rare occasion they both got off early enough. But they kept the conversation about sports, mostly." She pauses, reliving those nights in her mind. "What Al did for a living was tough, some of the cases he'd see…" she trails off. "He chose early on never to bring his work home with him. Roy understood that."

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Smith. We appreciate your help." Kate gives a curt nod to the old woman.

Castle lingers on the top step, trying desperately to find that one right question that upon asking will break this case wide open. But Mrs. Smith is already retreating into her foyer and Kate is backing down the stairs.

Before he realizes it she's halfway across the street.

"Kate, wait." He'd like to get to her before she gets to the car but she won't slow down.

"Let's get out of here." She flings open the car door out of frustration and her hand instinctively finds her side again, massaging it. All that progress gained just a few minutes ago, gone.

He clambers into the passenger seat, watches as she slips her key into the ignition and then stops.

"Every time. I hit a wall. Every time, I'm wrong or I'm too late." She lets her forehead fall to the steering wheel.

Instinctively he reaches out but stops himself before placing his hand on her back. Why is it so hard to know the right thing to do? Why is he always feeling like his agenda (to love her) is encroaching on what he should be doing (helping her get through a tough time)?

He pulls his arm back, suddenly so infuriated by the situation it's hard to sit still. He closes his eyes, waging a war within himself. His crushed ego is desperate to get out of the car, but the responsible adult within him won't let it.

"We'll figure this out, Kate. I promise."

She nods and then shifts in her seat, so that her eyes are gazing up at him while her head still rests on the steering wheel. He can see straight through her. The fear in her eyes so palpable he feels it cascading down around him. His stomach sinks. She is so vulnerable, can he do nothing for her?

And just like the pressure of an impending deadline, the weight of her sadness pushes a revelation to his lips.

"Wait a second."

He digs around his pockets, pulls out the letter. "We didn't- we never questioned it."

He ignores the paper with Albus' name on it, opting to focus on the envelope instead. Checks it: front to back, back to front.

"The envelope. We never looked at the envelope."

She gazes up at him, the glimmer of hope that he's found a new clue burgeoning across her face.

He flips the side with his address to her.

"What's missing?" he asks.

She looks it over, hasn't caught up to him yet.

"There's no postmark. This was never mailed. The only reason we have this letter now is because you found it and brought it to me."

She takes the envelope out of his hand. "But why? Why address it to you, put a stamp on it and then just leave it in a P.O. box you knew nothing about? Why didn't he just mail it to you?"

"Because he didn't _want_ me to get it right away. He wanted me to get it later. But in order for that to happen, someone else would have to mail it for him."

"So he left it in his P.O. Box for someone else to find?"

Castle nods. "Someone else has a key to that mailbox."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Ok! We are a third of the way through this story. How are you feeling pacing-wise? Too slow? Too fast? Too boring? Too much internalizing, not enough plot? Or vice versa? _

_Any and all thoughts welcome!_

_I own nothing. Andrew Marlowe & ABC own it all!_

* * *

The drive back into the city is slow due to afternoon traffic. Castle, mercifully, has refrained from talking, allowing her time to think. Something she knows he struggles with since his natural tendency is to fill all gaps with noise.

But she needs the quiet to work out the thoughts in her head. To filter through the memories of Montgomery so she can figure out exactly what he was doing leaving this letter for Castle in his P.O. Box – what his ultimate plan was. Because it is clear now that Roy Montgomery had given this case a lot of thought and even after his death he was pulling the strings, keeping key players at bay.

She's still getting used to painting over the reflections of her former boss with the grimy reality of his crimes. She'll be reliving one of their conversations and then all of a sudden it'll hit her – he knew all about who killed her mom, even then. He knew about it when she entered the academy, when she was paying her dues as a beat cop, when she got promoted. Even when she drove herself to the brink in her first two years as a detective pouring over the frayed ends of her mother's cold case.

Finding out Roy was the third cop, the last person to know what really happened that night, is like finding that magic piece of evidence that breaks the case wide open. Only it's not just any case, it's her life. And the reverberations are unending, like a bullet ricocheting off her memories, dismantling her past as it goes. Taking away everything she knew about herself and about those she thought she could trust.

She glances at Castle. If you had asked her three years ago whether she would trust this man over everyone else in her life, she would've laughed. And now he's the one she relies on above all. He's the one constant, the one she can count on every time.

How had she weathered these last few months without him? They've only been together for a few hours and she already can't remember what it feels like to spend almost every hour of every day with him.

She grapples with all this while he sits mere inches from her. She could turn and tell him right now: I heard you, I heard what you said. I know everything. But she doesn't, why?

Worst of all, she sees now what a ridiculous decision it was to keep away from him for three months. As if she wouldn't go running back for him. As if she really thought when she saw Montgomery's letter that he was doing something illicit behind her back this whole time.

What other decisions has she made in the last three months that were based on the same faulty logic as the one that told her to lie to him and stay away?

And then it dawns on her – she is doing the same thing Montgomery did. Making a bad decision in the moment and then using that choice as the basis for making even more flawed determinations.

If Castle ever found out she really did hear him that day, then he'd look back at their memories repainting _his_ recollections with the knowledge of _her_ misdeeds.

Her mind fills with a sudden and serious dread. Her knuckles whiten as her fingers grip the steering wheel, trying to release her pent up anxiety by remolding its rigid plastic.

"You okay?"

She looks to him, the panic perched at the tip of her tongue. "Yeah, I'm okay." His gaze lingers for a brief second, but he buys it, settling back into his reticent state.

She pulls into the red zone in front of the storefront she uncovered only hours earlier.

"This is it?" Castle peers up at the shop through the windshield.

"This is it."

* * *

Kate steps up to the counter, rings the bell.

"I got it, Pops!"

A young teen trips energetically out of the back room to greet them.

"What can I do you for?"

Kate flashes her badge.

"Woah. Good afternoon, Officers."

Kate tosses Montgomery's key onto the counter. "This goes to box eleven." She gestures to the wall at the end of the shop. "Can you tell me to whom it's registered?"

Castle exhales a sigh of relief over her shoulder.

"Like what I did there? Didn't want you sweating a dangling preposition."

"You know me so well, Detective." His voice is smooth, laced with a hint of play.

"We're not allowed to give out information on our clients..." the teen interjects, interrupting their fun moment.

Kate cuts him off by tapping her badge.

"Sure. Okay." The teen's fingers fly across the keyboard, followed by a few clicks. "Roy Montgomery. Rented the box back in March of two-thousand-and-six."

"No one else is listed on the account?"

The teen scans the screen again. "Uh… no."

"How many keys do you give out for each box?" Castle asks.

"Two. One's a backup in case they loose the first. After that, they're on their own."

Kate turns to Castle – both thinking the same thing. Roy gave his spare key to whoever else needed access.

Castle steps forward. "Did you ever notice who picks up mail from that box?"

"Not that I remember. But I only work here after school sometimes." He turns his head, yells down the hall, "Pops!"

"Coming!" A middle-aged soccer dad emerges from the storeroom.

The teen nods his head toward Kate. "The cops wanna know who picks up mail from eleven?"

The proprietor thinks on it, shuffles back to the boxes, accessing them from his side. Kate and Castle move to the end of the store along with him.

He peers through number eleven, getting the perspective right. "There was a man – African-American – always in a suit and tie. He used to pick up the mail."

Kate interjects, deflated, "Yeah, that was Roy. Thanks." Disappointed, she turns to leave.

"And then there was that young guy. The one in the scrubs."

Kate stops. "Who?"

"Caucasian. Six feet or so. Used to show up on his lunch break, I think. Wore these red scrubs and… something around his wrist. What are those things called? Says if you're a diabetic and what not?"

"Medical I.D. bracelet," Castle answers.

"Yeah, that thing."

Castle turns to Kate. "Are there any hospitals nearby?"

She feels the excitement building within her - a lead, finally! "I know just the one."

* * *

Kate's car screeches as it enters the parking garage. She circles until finally squeezing the Crown Vic into a tiny space, half taken up by the land rover on the left.

Castle can barely open his door wide enough, he has to squeeze himself out. "You couldn't park in loading?"

"And block an ambulance?"

Ugh. Maybe she has a point. But he thought the whole perk of riding with cops is that you got special treatment. He kicks himself for pausing to think about this because she's already outside the car and halfway across the parking garage before he's eked past the trunk.

He jogs to catch up to her. "So what's the plan? I mean, how do we know which Caucasian in red scrubs is our Caucasian in red scrubs?"

"I know someone who can help us."

"You know a guy? You never know a guy. I'm the one that knows all the guys."

"Well, this time, you're just gonna have to take a backseat and watch. Think you can handle that?"

"Puh-lease. I let you drive, don't I?"

* * *

When this day started the last thing he could imagine was walking down the halls that once housed his dying partner. The corridors are as calm as they were while he waited for Kate to come out of emergency surgery all those months ago.

Those hours were endless. Time had slowed to an imperceptible trickle that taunted him, like a predator inspired to play with its prey.

His heart hung in limbo hour after hour. When the news finally did reach him – she had been stabilized, she was going to survive - his body shuddered, relief flooding through him.

Bam! A gurney slams through the double doors at the end of the hall, waking Castle from his stupor.

He flattens himself to the wall as it passes, watching the E.M.T., perched over his patient, apply rhythmic presses. He glances at the victim, a middle-aged man who Castle can only assume by his size is suffering from a heart attack.

You could not pick a person that looks less like Kate. And still, his mind flashes, painting her lithe body over the patient's, Lanie's over the E.M.T.'s. And he's right back to three months ago, like it's happening all over again.

He takes a deep breath. He's not the one that was on the table, she was. But when he regards her, he sees her eyes have glazed over and she's not even registering the scene as it shoves its way past.

Those are some effective walls she's got.

She picks up speed, pushing through the doors at the end of the hall. They are already swinging back by the time he gets there. As he pushes them open for himself he watches her slip into a room a few doors down.

"Kate? Hey!"

He stops dead in his tracks the minute he hears the voice. How did he not see this coming?

He turns the corner into the room and hovers at the door. His spot of choice whenever Josh is involved.

"Hey, Rick."

"Hey." Castle juts his chin out as a greeting. It could be deemed impolite but Castle's in no mood to pressure himself about proper social graces.

Josh returns his focus to Kate. "Whatchya doin' here hon? My shift's not over for another few hours."

Castle's stomach churns as he watches Josh pull Kate into a warm embrace, kissing her neck to say hello. He's glad he's not on the opposite end of the room where he could see her face as she reacts to her boyfriend's touch. That look might just kill him.

He does notice when her hands reach out and push him back, breaking up the hug. He takes a small amount of joy in the fact that she's the one that ends it first.

"We're looking for someone. An employee." Gotta love Kate, she always gets straight down to business.

"There's plenty of people who work here I've never met. Not sure I can be much help."

"Yeah," she plows ahead, "but I figured you'd know the color coding system for the scrubs?"

"Sure."

"Who wears the red ones?" Castle interjects, not wanting this meeting to drag out any longer than it has to.

"Ahh, red, red. Red's Forensic nurses."

Of course. Forensic nurses take evidence off patients. Forensic nurses work with cops to build cases against perpetrators. That's this guy's connection to Montgomery.

"Pretty small group actually," Josh continues. "Their office is located right outside the E.R., since most of their patients are taken to emergency."

Kate smiles at him. Castle feels a twinge of jealousy before noticing the gleam in her eye. The same one she gets whenever a lead is panning out. His heart is even more emboldened when he notices her squeeze Josh's hand before heading out. No hug, no kiss, just a hand squeeze and she's onto her next target.

Castle slides to the side of the door to let her pass. He knows to get the hell out of her way when she's picked up a scent.

He turns back, reads Josh's face. He recognizes that look of disappointment. For a very brief second he feels sorry for him.

"Good to see you, Josh."

"You too." But the doctor is back in the previous moment, he can tell. They may still be together but he seems unclear on where they stand.

It's not the breakup Castle was hoping for, but it's a start.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Another shout out to my awesome betas – Katrina & Castlewriter16. Thank you ever so much for all your help!_

_I do not own any of the characters, etc below. Andrew Marlowe & ABC do. _

_Sorry for the smaller chapter than usual. As you'll see on Friday - I couldn't break the next one up!_

_If you have any thoughts – big or small – I'd love to hear them!_

* * *

By the time he catches up to Kate, she's already at the nurse's station. He only hears the tail end of what the woman behind the desk is explaining.

"We've only got two on staff these days. Allison Trinder and Lucas Swire. Allison's on break but Lucas is finishing up with a patient in curtain three." She points down the hall.

Castle calls out a "thank you" over his shoulder for Kate as she struts toward the makeshift rooms. She's moving so fast she almost bumps into a young male nurse exiting the stall.

"Sorry!" he exclaims as he turns to pass her.

Kate looks him up and down, takes in his red scrubs and the metal I.D. bracelet loosely clasped around his wrist.

"Lucas Swire?" She holds up her badge as she calls out his name.

He stops, looks down at her badge before planting an easy smile across his face.

Something about his immediate need to placate Kate strikes Castle as suspect. No one's ever that happy to see a cop.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Detective Beckett," she gestures to Castle "and this is my partner, Rick Castle."

Lucas keeps his carefree expression but his eyes narrow ever so slightly.

"You ever pick up mail from The Copy Shop on seventy-fifth and Columbus?"

"I don't think so?" Lucas throws a playful grin at Castle as he takes his place next to Kate. No stranger to using charm to get his way, Castle just tilts his head; he's not buying it.

"I walk that way a lot but I don't think I've ever been there. Why?"

"We're looking into someone who was using one of their mailboxes."

"No, sorry. I don't have a P.O. box. There, or anywhere else in the city."

"Did you know Roy Montgomery?" Castle throws out the question abruptly, wanting to see how Lucas reacts to the name.

"Roy… who?" Lucas glances back and forth between the two of them as if trying to follow a tennis match. "No, sorry."

Flawless, Castle thinks. This kid is good. No hitch in his voice and barely a glint of recognition in his eyes. "Should I?"

"He was a Police Captain with the twelfth precinct." Kate takes back over. "Maybe you worked together on a case? I know forensic nurses work with investigators when they are collecting evidence from the victim?"

Lucas shakes his head, making a show of it. "I don't think so. But I don't usually work with officers that high up the ladder. I meet with the lead detectives and maybe the prosecutor."

Kate studies him, letting her suspicions simmer.

"Anything else?"

Castle picks up on the impatience brewing in Lucas' voice.

"No." But she doesn't take her eyes off him. "Just… we'll be in touch."

"Okay. Well, you know where to find me."

Lucas pushes past them, back on the job. They turn to watch him wander down the hall.

"I sure as hell didn't believe him, did you?" He lobs his assessment at her, expecting she'll be on the same page.

"Me neither." He hears the audible sigh she exhales. "But I've got nothing to force him to tell us the truth."

* * *

The walk back to the parking garage is painfully quiet. Kate's lost in thought.

He knows what's slowing her down. She's wracking her brain, running through the database in her head for any kind of leverage she can use against Lucas. Anything to make him admit his relationship with Montgomery.

When they enter the garage, Kate slows.

"Where you going?" he asks when she stops in the middle of a row of cars.

"I just, I can't leave without getting an answer. A real answer."

"We can go back to the records room, see if he's listed on any of the cases Montgomery worked before he became Captain?"

Kate shakes her head. "He's what… twenty-nine? Thirty? Takes a forensic nurse several years to qualify for the position. Roy made Captain almost a decade ago. I doubt they ever directly worked together on a case."

"But they've gotta be connected somehow."

"I'm sure they are. There's a million ways they could've met in the past. But there's no way I can think of that'll have their meeting listed in print." Kate kicks a beaten soda can across the garage; its tin echoes throughout the cavernous space. "Every time. Every time."

Castle watches the frustration roil within her and when it can't find anywhere to go, her body just sinks against the nearest car.

He can't tell what he hates more - pent up Kate with nowhere to go, nothing to hit? Or deflated Kate, with no hope.

"Think how much more we have today than we had yesterday. We'll find a way to get him. We'll think of something."

But now her hands are covering her face and he's worried she might cry all over again. He stares intently at her, waiting for a sob, or a shake, or to see a glimpse of her eyes so he can gauge where she's at.

He's so relieved when she drops her hands and he can see her face is dry. So relieved it takes several seconds before he realizes that they've both been staring at each other.

Castle finds himself sliding closer. His head knows it's a bad idea but his body isn't listening.

He tenses, his breath hastening. _Bad idea. Bad idea. _He's just gotten confirmation she's still with Josh. _She's seeing someone else._

His body, compelled by forces greater than him, leans toward her. Their eyes are fixed on each other, bound by some invisible force.

_Did you hear me? Bad idea! Her mother's case is so far from over. Her life's still up in the air. And what did Lanie say? Her head's still in recovery. Whatever you do, do not do this!_

His face cants ever so slightly to the side and as he does so, her eyes stay with his, following his trajectory.

His lips hover just over the peaks of hers. So close, their breath intertwines, their inhales quicken, their exhales sync up.

Fruition lingers just around the corner.

Wham! The parking garage door springs open, hitting the cement wall with a heavy thud.

They both freeze, locked in place, caught in the midst of their illicit activity.

"I'm telling you, they were just here!"

Castle surveys the garage, finds Lucas approaching.

His hands, hesitant to reach for her just a second ago, plant themselves firmly on her sides and yank her down.

"You said they would never know who I was. You said I was protected."

Lucas winds his way through the garage, closing in on them.

"So you lied to me?"

Kate reaches out, grabs a hold of Castle's shirt and pulls him to her as she duck walks to the front of the car, away from Lucas. They crouch down behind the makeshift shield the car's engine provides, penned in by the cement wall at the end of the parking space.

Lucas' footsteps reverberate off the walls, increasing in volume. He's walking right to them.

Castle pulls Kate toward him, trying to squeeze them as far behind the car as possible.

Lucas rounds the corner, steadily gaining on them.

"What?"

Thump! The heavy plodding stops midstride.

"As long as those two know what I look like my safety is definitely _not_ guaranteed." Castle can see the cuffs of Lucas' crimson scrubs peeking out around the bumper at the end of the space. If Lucas turns a quarter inch to his right, he'll discover them both.

"What do I want? I want cops not to show up at my work. Especially _that_ cop."

Castle looks over at Kate. He watches as she takes one shallow breath after another, staring at the body poised just a few feet away.

"Just fix it!"

Lucas hangs up the phone in disgust. For a second Castle thinks he might throw it across the expansive field of vehicles ahead of him, but instead Lucas pockets it.

And then he plods on, never looking over to his right. Never seeing them crouched just a few feet away.

Castle opens his mouth to say something but her hand is already digging into his forearm.

She looks at him, holds a finger to her lips, the lips he was lingering over just a few moments ago.

He has no choice but to follow when she rises up from their hiding place, keeping her head low. Her fingers wriggle down to his hand, pulling him behind her.

Together they peer over the car roof and spy Lucas climbing onto a mountain bike at the end of the garage. He clicks on his helmet and balances his messenger bag against his torso.

When Lucas turns his back to head out of the garage, Kate yanks Castle to the Crown Vic, parked just a few spaces away.

He's barely inside the vehicle before Kate's revving the engine and pulling out of the space.

"There!" Castle points at Lucas idling at a stoplight several yards down the street.

As Kate exits the garage in pursuit, he only gives a passing glance at the black Escalade falling in line behind them.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: So sorry for the delayed posting today! Got sucked up in other projects!**_

_**Loving your guys' interest so far. Thanks so much to all that have taken a moment to respond to the story. I very much appreciate your feedback.**_

_**Hope this chapter will continue to entertain!**_

_**And as usual, thank you ABC & Andrew Marlowe for letting me use your characters and your world.**_

* * *

Castle sits in the passenger seat watching Lucas on his bike as he keeps to his lane a few car links ahead. Dusk is settling over the city, giving an extra pump to the streetlights dangling in front of them.

"You could not pay me to ride a bike in this city."

The light turns green. Kate eases up on the brake, the car lurches forward. Castle notes two vehicles behind them and one lane over to the left, the black Escalade follows.

"You cycle?"

"Not since I was twelve. A taxicab almost pinned me between its bumper and a fire truck. That was the end of me using two wheels to get anywhere."

Lucas expertly dodges a yellow cab that's trying to make a spontaneous illegal left turn across two lanes.

Kate jogs to the side, following Lucas' trajectory. The black Escalade turns on its blinker. It's changing lanes too.

Castle glances over his shoulder, registers the car's tinted windows.

"What?" Kate inspects the image in her rear-view mirror, following Castle's eye line.

"I'm sure it's nothing."

"Black Escalade?"

"It's been behind us ever since we exited the garage."

"I know."

Lucas swings a wide turn onto Amsterdam, Kate follows suit. Both of them observe the Escalade mimicking their move behind them.

Castle keeps his eyes trained on their unwelcome visitors. "Lucas just made four rights in a row. If these guys weren't so obvious maybe he wouldn't have picked them out already."

"I'm not sure subtle is what they're going for."

Lucas rubbernecks his head around. Clocks both cars still behind him. The light ahead turns yellow, but Lucas guns it. He skates through the intersection as it switches to red.

"He made us."

Kate punches the accelerator. The car's engine whines, pressured into action. She flips on her siren while motioning to Castle. "Grab my cherry, will ya?"

Castle stares at her. "Huh?"

As Kate speeds toward the crossing she points down, underneath the glove compartment. "There!"

Castle scrounges around the floor then pulls out an emergency roof light. "Oh, oh, oh! The flashy light thingy! Got it!"

He rolls down the window and slaps it to the roof of the car. The light churns to life just as Kate sails through the intersection.

An Audi slams on his brakes, narrowly missing Kate's trunk as she crosses to the other side. Castle can hear the driver shouting expletives out his car window.

Smash! Castle bristles at the sounds of glass breaking. He looks behind them, sees the front end of the Audi is now squashed, the black Escalade having misjudged the distance and slammed its front headlight into the Audi's.

The Audi driver turns to the Escalade, prepared to unleash on him as well but the Escalade's already backing up. Its tires, no match for the tiny sports car, roll over the edge of its front end as the Escalade slips back into first gear and finishes its journey through the intersection.

Kate glances in the mirror. "Who the hell are these guys?"

Lucas fakes left and then turns right again.

"Beckett, he's on ninety-sixth."

He looks over at her, her eyes trained on the mark in front of them but her brain is churning, lost in thought about the guys behind her.

"He's headed straight for the park."

She makes no attempt to hide her annoyance. "Yeah, I know."

Castle scans the road, the short rocky walls of Central Park deep in the distance, lining the top of the T that will inevitably rip them apart. The cyclist, able to traverse the narrow dirt path into the urban sanctuary, versus the vehicle, that will be forced to stay on its outer perimeter.

Lucas fishes between cars. Expertly wielding his coach in and around motorcyclists, taxi cabs and pedestrians. He looks back every few minutes or so and even though he's still several yards ahead of them, Castle swears he can register the fear in his eyes.

Castle turns around and takes a glimpse out the back window, sees the now black-eyed Escalade still hot on their tail.

He ponders the irony of being sandwiched in between these two until he's shaken violently out of his thoughts when Kate pulls sharply around the S.U.V. in front of her and guns it.

Lucas' brilliant idea to head to the park is majorly thwarted by the lack of vehicles traveling on 96th.

Steadily Kate eases the Crown Vic up to thirty, taking advantage of the lack of congestion. Lucas peddles fast to keep his lead but the Crown Vic is no match for him on open road. The speedometer works its way to thirty-five, forty.

The Escalade lingers farther behind due to its minor traffic accident. It has more ground to cover but it too is picking up speed.

Lucas' legs spin in an unrecognizable blur. For a moment Castle envisions a cartoon animal's legs spinning at a speed so fierce the bike just falls apart. But Lucas' ride is not so fragile, it manages to keep up with him.

Kate floors it and closes the gap. Her bumper ready to kiss the deep grooves on Lucas' back wheel. She slows so as not to hit him.

Kate reaches for her mouthpiece, calls out over her car speaker system. "N.Y.P.D. Pull over."

The megaphone makes Lucas jump. He glances back, looks clear into the car, identifying both Kate and Castle. There's no mistaking the visible relief that washes over his face.

"This is Detective Beckett, Lucas. Pull over. Now."

He looks at her, as if considering her request. But then he cranes his neck up, looking out over their car.

Castle spies the Escalade, now several yards closer and traveling much faster, with no signs of slowing down. "I don't think they're gonna stop."

Kate looks back then turns to Castle**. **He can see it her eyes, she knows he's right**.**

Lucas has picked this up as well. He peddles faster but the park is still too far, he'll never outrun them.

Kate keeps the Crown Vic steady at thirty miles per hour, acting as a shield between the Escalade and the bike.

They watch as the Escalade bears down on them, going at least fifty with no signs of stopping.

"Kate-"

Kate keeps her foot steady on the gas peddle. Her eyes flash up to the Escalade in the rear view, heading into the last few feet before he's on them – or on top of them – whatever comes first. Kate bites her lower lip.

"Kate-"

"Not now, Rick!"

"Yes, now!"

He points, Lucas fishtails into oncoming traffic. He sails diagonally across three lanes.

Kate cuts hard to the left after him. The Escalade, going too fast to make such a sharp turn, keeps heading straight, their front bumper just missing a collision with Kate's back fender.

Lucas slips into a narrow alleyway on the opposite side of the street.

After avoiding some near misses, Kate cuts over to the mouth of the alley but its narrow opening forces her to reverse in order to correct her angle of entry. She'll only manage this if she goes in completely straight.

Castle eyes the Escalade, now several yards past them, attempting a U-turn.

Lucas is halfway down the alley when Kate gets the car lined up and pushes in after him. They just barely fit. A fat cat chasing after a nimble mouse.

Lucas looks over his shoulder, visibly cursing when he sees the Crown Vic has made it into the alley. He turns back but it's already too late. A drainpipe bent at an odd angle juts out into his path. He swerves but the end of his shoulder bag is snagged on one of its ragged bolts.

The strap tightens around Lucas's torso. He's going just fast enough for it to yank him off the bike as it's being pulled up and over his head. Lucas falls backwards. His bike, fixed with forward momentum, skitters to a stop several feet ahead of him.

Kate kicks the accelerator, hopeful she'll be able to take advantage of Lucas' plight.

Lucas springs up. Turns to grab his bag dangling off the pipe, sees Kate, decides better of it and runs (limps) to his bike.

Thwack! Castle jumps. The Crown Vic's passenger side mirror hits the edge of a fire escape and breaks off.

In seconds Lucas is back up on the bike and pedaling out of the alley. He doesn't look back to see how Kate's doing.

Castle rolls down his window. "Stay to the right."

Screech! The passenger side of the Crown Vic sparks as it scrapes along the edge of a dumpster. Castle reaches out as they pass Lucas' bag. He snags it, pulling it into the car through the window as they drive by.

He looks over his shoulder. If they are having this tough of a time with it, the Escalade must be too.

Indeed, the driver of the Escalade attempts to bully its way into the cramped lane but it's a few inches too fat. It stands back at the mouth of the alley, completely incapacitated.

"Escalade doesn't fit. There's a plus at least."

Castle refocuses on Lucas. Watches him as he hangs a right on ninety-seventh, Kate hot on his tail.

She has to pull out completely before she can turn the vehicle, but just as she is righting herself into the lane, another large black Escalade swerves in an exaggerated attempt to get around her.

"What the hell?"

Castle scrutinizes the back end of the vehicle, "That could not be the same guy."

"It wasn't. No smashed headlight."

"There's more than one?!" Castle utters, the alarm in his voice more insistent than he intended.

Kate hits the gas, now the last one in the line of cars following Lucas.

Up ahead Lucas reaches the end of the T. He pauses briefly to figure out a way to navigate the cross street. He's got mere seconds before the new Escalade will reach him.

Cross traffic flows fast and furious. The stubborn red glow of the streetlight persists. Lucas looks back at his foes, considering for a moment before he makes his decision.

He pulls out into oncoming traffic. Castle squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to witness the inevitable meeting of soft human flesh and unyielding steel.

Unprepared or unwilling to stop, the Escalade careens into the traffic after him.

Crash! Screech! A cacophony of twisting metal and broken glass come together in a deadly symphony.

And then it all stops and the only noise Castle hears is the elongated wail of a depressed car horn.

Castle opens his eyes. The Escalade sits in the middle of the road. Dented from all sides. Cross traffic littered around its beaten corpse.

But where's Lucas?

Castle scans the road, panicked. Ready to find Lucas' battered body strewn on the pavement somewhere. But the street is clean.

Castle looks up. Sees Lucas on his bike, entering the park.

"He made it!" Castle points at Lucas in elation.

Kate steers the Crown Vic closer, trying to get to the Escalade as quickly as possible.

Two burly men leap out of the vehicle. One heads uptown, the other downtown.

"They're splitting up," Castle notes. His intonation clear: now what?

Accident victims step out of their cars, watching in awe as the perpetrators run away.

Castle studies the twisted landscape. "And Lucas is in the park. No way we can catch up to him on foot."

Kate pulls over to the side of the road, hops out of the car. Castle follows suit, still clutching Lucas' bag in his left hand.

She surveys the wreckage. Castle can see it in her eyes, her heart is sinking. The rash, determined Beckett being put away. The responsible cop taking its place. "I'm gonna have to stick around, make a statement."

"Okay."

"You don't have to stay."

"I know."

They both stand there, allowing the dust to settle.

He looks over at her, dying to make her feel better. He starts to shift Lucas' bag into his other hand and then registers what he's holding. In the midst of everything he completely forgot he grabbed it.

He places it on the ground, starts rummaging through it.

Beckett watches Castle flip through Lucas' wallet, a set of keys, a hospital I.D., a pack of gum.

She bends down next to him. "Anything interesting?"

He roots around, finally opting to turn the bag upside down. A few pens and some paper fall out. He sifts through them.

Beckett grabs the bag, starts to unzip some compartments.

"Not sure how long he can last without his apartment keys and his wallet."

Beckett finds a pocket with a bulge and unzips it. Extracts a small case.

"A hell of a lot longer than he can last without this."

She holds up an open insulin kit. Lucas' name is plastered along the prescription label on the front.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who's taken a moment to respond to the chapters so far. It really helps to know if I'm still on track with you all or not! Please do not hesitate to let me know if at any point you are no longer with me on this journey I'm laying out. It's the best way for me to get better!_

_And finally – thanks so much to Andrew Marlowe & ABC for letting me get creative with their ingenious invention!_

* * *

Kate has started to count on her sleepless nights. Nights she spends gazing up at her ceiling, unable to quell the incessant swirl of thoughts festering in her head.

She's memorized every crack, every fragmented fissure, etched in the plaster above her bed. And as she watches them make their jagged attempts to reach the adjoining walls, her mind always, _always_ goes to him.

All roads lead to Castle.

Tonight she remembers that look he gave her when she encouraged him - no insisted – that he go home. She had wanted him to stay, of course, but she knew once the cavalry showed up, word would get out and the boys would be there in a flash. She didn't want to have to explain his presence on top of everything else.

She wrestled with the idea of inventing a cover story. Knowing if she admitted she was investigating her mother's case on her own there'd be hell to pay. Indeed Gates was not pleased when she showed up. But for some reason – suspiciously like Castle had the Mayor make a call on her behalf – Gates sent her home telling her to get some rest and be prepared for some quality time together on Monday morning.

Yet another unsolicited favor putting her in Richard Castle's debt.

How many was it now? She'd lost count. She giggles softly to herself. The absurdity of it all. How long had she spent building a life where she didn't owe anybody anything? And now, in a series of a few short years she was indebted to someone she completely dismissed at first glance. When did it happen? When did it all change?

More importantly – what the hell does she do about it?

Kate thinks back to Dr. Burke's suggestion – write it down, put it in black and white. At the time it seemed ludicrous. The last thing she would ever do. A written proclamation of everything going on in her head – all her secrets laid out for the world to see. No, she would never expose herself like that.

And yet, before she knows it, she's sitting at the small desk she has in her bedroom. Its plane illuminated by the moonlight sifting in through her window. Just enough light with which to write.

She pulls out a pen from the mug perched on the top corner of the hutch. It's a rudimentary ballpoint but it'll do the job.

Gently she eases a desk drawer open, pulls out a few pages of blank stationary and lays them out in front of her.

Her pen hovers over the page but her head won't let the ink stain the paper. It keeps the pen at bay, waiting. Waiting for what?

His face springs into her mind. The way he looked at her when she lowered her hands from her face in the parking garage. The moment right before they _almost_ kissed. The concern, the fear, the hope – all of it declared in his crystal blue eyes.

He knows everything – all the ugly stuff she lives with - but he never runs. Instead he looks at her like that, like he would give his own life to take her pain away.

That look? It haunts her.

_Castle-_

Her pen dips, writing out his name at the top.

_I thought about writing you a letter every day since I got shot. _

And suddenly the pen is moving, speeding down the page, crashing to the edge and resetting itself for another line. She dips back into the drawer, pulls out more paper. Her hand moving faster than her head.

Good, her head would only stop her.

She paints several pages before she has to ease up for a moment and massage her hand. She looks down, registering everything in front of her. Her feelings now a tangible tome on display.

She glances down at the paper, almost afraid to read it. But she picks up the phrases, little combinations of words that strung together spell out everything she carries in her heart.

And as she skips over the ardent apologies, the incomplete explanations for her behavior, the mention of the way her skin ached when he wrapped his arms around her while she cried in his loft, her eyes fall to the one passage still incomplete.

_I don't know why I lied to you. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing this letter._

_It's like trying to think of what's beyond our universe. My mind entertains the thought for a second, maybe two, and then the idea becomes so big, so overwhelming my mind just shuts down, goes blank._

_But I'm trying. I want to figure it out. I __will__ figure it out._

_I hope you are still here when I do._

Squeak! The bed moans loudly behind her.

Josh shifts and turns, rolling over in her bed.

Her breath catches in her throat. She sits frozen on the edge of her seat, anticipating his arm searching for her, realizing she's not there. But no, thank god, his body settles, happy to have found a new comfortable position to sleep in. She watches the rise and fall of his chest lengthen as he heads back into a deep slumber.

Her adrenaline pumping – the call so close – she grabs one of Montgomery's case files off her desk, stuffs the letter deep within. Sandwiching it in a sea of bureaucratic clutter.

She tiptoes back to the bed, eases her body as quietly as possible under the covers. She curls up, facing away from him. His massive body sprawled out on the right side, hers tucked in and small on the left.

She gazes across at her desk. Calms the panicked voice within by reminding herself that her true feelings, all the more real now, are tucked safely away. Hidden deep, along with her heart.

* * *

As the cool light of dawn stretches across his living room Castle sits, fully dressed, on his couch, waiting. Waiting until the clock turns to a reasonable hour where he can head out, grab two coffees and knock on her door.

He'd woken at four, and even though he only got five hours of sleep, he's never felt so well rested. Never felt this excited to get going in the morning.

He'd spent long nights banging out chapters of his latest novel and toddled off to bed as dawn approached. He'd woken before the moon had fully fallen for hellaciously early flights out of the city to promote his books. But he had never risen at four just to sit in his living room until it was time to see her.

He resolves never to spend that much time away from her again. Granted, their recent hiatus was not his doing, but still, he won't let it go so easily next time. He doesn't care if it means sitting through her lectures about his latest unprofessional behavior or, worse, watching her with Josh. He'll suck it up, find a way to live through it, _whatever_, as long as it means he won't have to experience that horrible withdrawal again.

His phone rings. Instinctively he grabs it, pressing talk before even checking the caller I.D.

"Kate?"

But the response comes from a voice he's never heard before.

"No."

Confused, Castle leaves an awkward pause as his brain tries to catch up with the change in his expectations.

"Is this Richard Castle?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"I'm a friend of Roy Montgomery. We need to talk."

* * *

Castle sets down the phone. His brain cart-wheeling through the new information he's just been given.

"I know that face. It's never good."

Martha floats down the stairs, her silk robe tied loosely at the waist. Castle looks up at her, unable to squelch the concern etched in his brow.

She glides across the room, keeping a watchful eye on her son as she gestures to the phone. "Not good news I take it?"

"Not sure."

"When you had that look when you were a kid, I'd have the nanny heat up some milk for you." She pulls down a mug from the shelf, pours some hot coffee into it, hands it to him.

"Warm beverages have a way of calming the mind."

He takes the steaming cup, taps its warm porcelain in consideration. "That was a friend of Montgomery's."

"Oh." Martha leans in, intrigued.

"He says… he says Roy gave him files that contain damaging information about Beckett's mother's case. That he's been using them to keep Beckett safe. But now that she's digging things up again, it may not be enough."

"She's doing what?"

Castle looks up, realizing only now that his mother has no idea he spent all yesterday getting right down into it again with Kate.

"Beckett came by yesterday."

"Can't say I didn't see that coming." She shoots Castle a look, notes his brow is still deeply furrowed.

"What? What else did he tell you?"

"He says if I can get her to stop looking into her mother's case, he can keep her safe."

"And you believe him?"

"I do."

"Then you have to tell her."

"I know. I know. But…."

"What?"

"What if he's right? What if they're gunning for her and this is the only way she'll stay safe?"

He looks at Martha, trying to sell her on his reasoning. "She trusts me. I can steer her away."

"Listen to yourself."

Castle sighs. His new found excitement ebbed by her reason. "If I tell her, she'll just go after it. Put herself directly into the line of fire. She'll get herself killed."

Martha parses her words carefully. "Maybe you'll be successful. Maybe you'll keep her out of harms way by following this man's advice. And maybe she won't find out your role in all this."

Martha leans in, nailing the dramatic effect. "But if she does find out, you'll be the guy that helped keep her in the dark."

He hangs his head, his voice soft, already beaten. "I can't lose her again."

Martha lays an aged hand over her sons. "Just promise me you'll think about it. Okay?"

He nods.

"Who is this guy anyway?"

Castle looks down at his recent calls list. "I dunno. His number didn't come through. It's listed as unknown."

"He didn't give you a name or anything?"

"Sorta. He told me to call him Smith." And the lightbulb explodes before his lips have released the last word.

He hops up and lunges for his jacket.

"What is it? Where you going?"

"Out." He races back, gives her a quick peck on the cheek. "Tell Alexis I love her and that I'll see her tonight."

She's barely able to utter a goodbye before he's out the door.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: My apologies for the late posting. I've got some hellacious deadlines this week._

_Quick note – please know I am totally hearing those of you who would prefer Josh not be in this story. I get it, I'm not ignoring you. I'm not a huge Josh fan either. But I find him to be useful, extremely useful, as you will see below. And so I can't get rid of him just yet._

_Thanks so much for everyone who's given me feedback. I love hearing what you guys think about the story and how it works with the series. It's eye opening to learn what you have gotten out of the show so far and how well (not well) this story is lining up with that._

_Please don't hesitate to keep me up to date with that kind of stuff, and frankly anything that's working / not working for you. This should be a fun (albeit occasionally angsty) journey to be on. If it's not, I want to know about it!_

_Finally – I don't own the characters, I don't own the world. I'm just renting it – for free – thanks to Andrew Marlowe & ABC._

* * *

Castle stands motionless at the bottom of Mrs. Smith steps. His phone, poised at the ready, sits like a lead weight in his palm. His thumb hovers over the call button, Beckett's picture plastered on the screen.

He lets his thumb skate past the button, opting to turn it off instead, before dropping it into his pocket.

Decision made, he bounds up the stairs and rings the bell. It takes a while but Mrs. Smith finally emerges from the back, tying her dressing robe around her as she opens the door.

"Can I help you? Wait… weren't you here yesterday?"

"Yes, Richard Castle." He extends his hand but then immediately withdraws it, remembering how well that went over the last time. "I meant to ask, did Albus have a brother?"

"Yes, he did," corrects herself, "…does. Michael. Lives in Queens."

"Do you know if your husband ever introduced Roy Montgomery to him?"

Mrs. Smith shakes her head sadly. "Michael didn't come around often. He and his brother had a falling out several years ago. But Albus loved him very much."

Castle leans on the door, taking on a sympathetic pose. There is clearly a story here and if he waits long enough, she just might tell it to him.

"Michael was Albus' older brother. They were extremely close as kids. But when the Vietnam war started, Michael enlisted while Albus was accepted to medical school. It was okay at first but when Michael got back, Albus said he didn't recognize him. He had looked up to him all those years, admired his spark and his love for life but from the way he described it, all that was gone when Michael got back. Albus tried to help him. Tried to find him a job, a place to live, but Michael couldn't keep up. He got fired, then evicted for not paying his rent. Finally, after we heard he was arrested for buying drugs off a street dealer, Albus posted his bail and then told him he couldn't see him again until he was clean." She pauses, "And that was it, he just washed his hands of him."

Mrs. Smith loses her train of thought – her mind going back to the heartache her husband must've felt in that moment.

"A few years after that Michael showed up on our doorstop. He was in trouble. I have never seen a man so scared. Albus called Roy and he came right over. I don't know what they talked about but when Michael left that night he looked like a changed man. A few years later we heard Michael got into medical school. Turned his life completely around."

Castle pieces it together – the troubled brother getting a second chance, getting clean, becoming a doctor. Montgomery being a key player in that transformation.

How much would you owe the person responsible for rescuing you from a life destined for depravity and probably imprisonment?

Everything, you would owe him everything.

And so, when he asked for a favor - for you to do something even after he was long gone - you would say yes. You would remain loyal to him above all else.

Smith was supposed to be an anonymous source. A faceless voice of warning whenever Beckett stepped too close to the line. But now, because Kate had found Montgomery's mailbox and fished out that letter long before it was supposed to be sent, Castle knew exactly who he was.

With the exception of learning Montgomery was the third man that night, this is the biggest lead they've gotten in the case.

Castle could find this man right now and demand he tell him everything he knows. Tell him all about who murdered Johanna Beckett. And this case would be done, finished. Finally resolved.

He's holding a major piece of the puzzle in his hands, and Kate knows nothing about it.

* * *

He never thought he'd be getting to Beckett's apartment after eight a.m. when he had been up four hours earlier just waiting for the clock to strike seven.

His previously good mood has turned serious. All this new information swimming in his head, weighing him down.

What to tell Kate. What to tell Kate. None of it? All of it? Some of it? But if he only tells her some of it, which parts should he leave out? Could he really only give her half of the information? She's a detective. She'd push and pull until she got it all out of him.

No. It's all or nothing.

He's both elated and miserable that Montgomery gave him this power. Well, to be fair, he wasn't supposed to know who Smith was, but it was always in the plans for Smith to call him. That he's sure of.

Montgomery was keeping these people at bay for years, so he must've known he'd need to find someone else to do that for him after he was gone. But that person wasn't in the precinct. That person didn't interact with Kate every day. Who'd be keeping tabs on _her_? Keeping _her_ from finding out too much?

That's what Montgomery needs from him. Castle's the puppet master who's supposed to yank Kate's string anytime she goes down any not-so-good path. That's his new job now.

But if she ever found out, she'd never forgive him. How could she forgive the man who kept her mother's killer safe – out in the ether and untouchable? That would be the most unimaginable betrayal in her mind.

If she found out, it would mean the end of them, forever. No more hope that one day, down the line, she'd open up to him. Let him in. She would write him off and the walls would be up for good.

He sighs. His mother's right. He can't keep it from her.

There it is – decision made.

Click. Click. The sounds of locks being turned reverberate from the other side of the door.

He's been standing there with his fist suspended in front of him for at least twenty minutes, unable to make himself knock. And now she's coming out. She'll see him immediately. No more waiting. It's happening now.

The door swings open.

"Rick!"

He expected the warm voice of his favorite detective, but Josh stands in front of him instead.

"Hey, Josh. I'm sorry. I was looking for Kate."

"She left, a couple hours ago. Some lead on a guy she's been following."

Castle nods. So she found out where Lucas was getting his insulin but she didn't call him. His heart drops. To be fair, it doesn't have far to go since its meteoric crash the minute Josh opened the door.

He almost kissed her just a few short hours ago, but she went home with Josh. She spent the night with Josh.

What if she went to Josh after he left last night, not out of love but out of need? A displaced need for him?

There, that's better. The pain is easing slightly.

And then Josh opens the door further.

"Do you… want to come in?"

Castle steps inside the apartment. It's nothing like he last saw it. It's crammed with all the doctor's personal belongings. Medical texts shoved awkwardly into bookshelves, scrubs tossed on a chair in the corner, framed photos propped up along the back of the dining room wall.

"I know. Doesn't look like much. Hard to consolidate two people's stuff. I keep telling her to throw some of it out, but she won't do it. You should see the kitchen. We've got like, fifteen mugs." Josh makes some room on the couch. "We'll figure it out eventually."

Castle feels his jaw slacken, dangling from its hinge, but he can't seem to close his mouth.

They've moved in together. She asked, or maybe he did. Or maybe they both decided to jump this hurdle in their relationship together. They've taken the next step. Made that commitment to each other.

Castle feels nauseas.

"She'll probably stop by before she heads into work. I have to take off, but you're welcome to wait here if you want."

"No, no." Castle's already backing away. The apartment is starting to swim in front of him. "I'm sure she'll call me if she needs me." He turns to leave, shutting his eyes tight in an effort to ebb the wave of sick building up in his stomach.

"I'll let her know you stopped by."

"Thanks." He's already at the door but his hand won't turn the knob. He can feel Josh behind him.

"You forget something?"

"Yeah, actually. There are some files. She took them home with her last night. I'd love to review them."

"Yeah, sure. I think I saw her bring those in with her last night. They're in the hutch in the bedroom."

There's an awkward moment where Castle moves toward the back of the apartment and almost bumps into Josh who starts to head that way himself. Castle realizes Josh was assuming _he'd_ get the files. And since that's Josh's bedroom too now, Castle realizes he probably _should_ be the only one going back there.

Castle stands and waits in the living room. He looks around, every view twisting the knife in his gut. Finally his eyes rest on the set of Russian dolls he had picked up while they were canvassing a neighborhood on same case several years ago. On a whim he had given them to her. At the time she blew it off, like it meant nothing, but here he can see she's carefully etched out a place for them amongst the clutter.

Josh enters the room, jolting him out of his memory. "This what you looking for?" The M.D. hands him a few files, Montgomery's case numbers scrawled along the top.

He doesn't know exactly why he wants Montgomery's records. It's more like he just doesn't want Kate to have them. Doesn't want Kate's mind running to Albus and then somehow getting to his brother.

If he's going to keep all this from her, he doesn't want any evidence left behind.

"Perfect. Thanks." Castle gives him a weak smile then turns and heads out the door.

Once on the other side he rushes down the hall, choosing the stairs instead of the elevator.

He can't get out of the apartment building fast enough.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: __**WHOOPS! Just realized I posted the wrong draft of this chapter. Nothing's changed, this one's just a little cleaner.**_

_Here's the latest. I do not own a thing – thankfully, I'm letting Andrew Marlowe and ABC do all the heavy lifting for me!_

_Keep the responses coming – I am learning a ton about how this story is going over!_

_Finally, to "Evil Steve" who posted a review about my use of the term 'cherry' for an emergency light in chapter 9. I would've put this in an earlier author's note but for some reason your review didn't show up until now. Anyhoo, you are absolutely right. In fact, my husband and I (he and I both have worked on cop shows) discussed this matter in length. I was completely cheating (I stole it from an 80s cop show I used to watch – so yes, I absolutely knew better). I needed a joke at that moment in the chapter and I got attached to that idea and kept it in when perhaps I shouldn't have. Here I was assuming that the fanfic readers wouldn't really be thinking about proper police terminology nor know that they have long since abandoned such rudimentary equipment for awesome 10K lighting packages. Shame on me for underestimating my readers!_

* * *

"Thought you might want this back."

Kate holds out Lucas' pack as he exits the pharmacy's doors, carrying a brand new prescription of insulin.

He stops short, eyeing his bag. Kate knows that look: he's figuring out how fast he can swipe it and run.

"It's okay. I don't want it."

She dangles it in front of him.

"You want something or you wouldn't be here," he says, his intonation sharp, as he snatches the satchel out of her hand.**  
**

"Just some information."

"I can't help you, Detective."

"Sure you can. Tell me who you're working for."

Lucas scoffs before trying to walk around her. She gets in his way.

"I'm not working for anybody." He states it like a cold, hard fact but his uneasy shuffle paints a different picture.

"Don't lie to me, Lucas." She means it to be a soft warning but it comes out more like a threat.

Lucas drops the bag in frustration; it hits the pavement with a resounding whompf!

"You saw them! They are as much after me as _you_ are! Don't you get that?"

"I'll tell you what I get. I get a kid who got in with the wrong crowd, agreed to do God knows what and then got in over his head. And now he's going to go to jail for his mistakes."

"All I'm guilty of is doing a friend a favor. That's it!"

He leans against a beaten street sign, finally giving in. "He was a good guy, Captain Montgomery. He helped put away so many of the creeps that assaulted my patients. But this, this was too much. I wish he'd never asked."

"What favor?" Kate lets her intensity bore into him – she needs to keep this kid on track.

Lucas sighs, acquiescing to the situation. "I had this patient a while back. Her husband was a diplomat, untouchable. But she kept coming in, a black eye, a broken wrist. When she finally showed up with strangulation marks around her neck, I called Captain Montgomery- we had met when I testified on this rape case a few months before. Roy told me to collect all the evidence and then get him the forensic kit. But when I explained to him who her husband was, that if I went through any of the normal channels I was sure he'd find out, Roy said he'd handle it. Next thing I know he's giving me a key to his P.O. box, telling me to leave the kit in there. There'd be no record that way, but if she decided to press charges later, they'd have the forensics to hold him accountable."

She draws back, processing his story, the pieces starting to fit together. "So that's why he got the mailbox?"

Lucas nods. "When Roy came to see me at the hospital last spring I didn't think twice about doing what he asked. He handed me a large envelope filled with a bunch of files and a phone number. I left a message and when the guy called me back we agreed to meet in a park up in Harlem. I gave him the package and left."

"But what about the letter? The one he left for you in his box?"

"That night I was getting shipped out on a medical relief trip to Haiti. Roy left me a message about it but I didn't get it until I got back, long after he…" Lucas swallows hard, "… was killed. I kept meaning to stop by, check the box. But if it was gone, I dunno, I'd feel like I failed him."

He hangs his head in shame. Still conflicted over how a dead friend might perceive his actions, or lack thereof. Kate takes this in, knowing exactly how he feels.

"Besides, he said in his message, I was only supposed to deliver the letter if something happened to you."

Kate twists her neck, her detective instincts springing to life. "What do you mean?"

"Roy knew that if you were… killed… I'd hear about it."

Kate looks at him, confused. "You're something of a legend, Detective Beckett. And I meet with Officers from the twelfth all the time. People talk."

Kate's mind whirls. She always knew she was good at her job, that people respected her. But it was new hearing about herself this way. Was this what it was like when she got shot? Everyone aware of what had happened? Everyone whispering about her?

"People would talk… about me?"

Lucas nods. "And only then was I supposed to deliver that letter."

Kate steps back, Montgomery's plan starting to come into focus.

The last time she saw Roy she asked, no begged him to give her the name. The name of the person responsible for her mother's death. But he refused. Said if he did that he might as well 'shoot you where you stand.'

But Roy was smart. He'd been protecting her for over a decade. He'd been using some sort of leverage to keep her safe.

He was a righteous man. Maybe not when he was riding along with Raglan & McCallister, using excuses to twist justice around, but he was by the time they met. He, as much as her, didn't want to see the other side win.

If they didn't live up to their end of the bargain, he was gonna bring 'em down… even if that meant doing so from the grave.

So the plan was for Lucas to give Montgomery's envelope to Castle in the event that she were ever… taken out of the equation. Castle, with his inability to leave any stone unturned, would figure out who Albus Smith was and what Albus Smith had to do with her mother.

Then he'd write about it - and publish it - for everyone to see. And all those dirty secrets that she's been chasing down for years would be out in the open. Her mother's killer finally exposed.

Who knew it would be that easy? All she has to do is let them kill her.

"Detective? Can I go now?"

Kate snaps out of her stupor, refocuses on Lucas. "You said you left a message for the guy who picked up the files. Was that the same person you were talking to yesterday when you were in the parking garage?"

Lucas nods, a look of concern washing over him. He knows where this is headed.

"What's his name?"

Lucas stammers "I… I dunno. He never gave me one."

Kate considers whether or not he's telling the truth. Lucas is charming and somewhat sophisticated, but not enough to pull off an act like this. "I need that number."

He fidgets, nervous energy expelling awkwardly from his limbs. "Roy didn't want me to share that info with anyone, never mind you."

Kate flashes back to the car chase just yesterday. She wants to hate Lucas, she really does, but this kid has been through hell and back out of loyalty for a dead Police Captain.

"He didn't want you to share it with anyone because he knew the kind of people that would be after you. He didn't want you in harm's way."

Lucas scoffs. "Too late now."

"Exactly. The tables have turned. You're in the crosshairs. But I'm one of the good guys. You give it to me? I can see we end this thing."

She's appealing to his hero complex – she knows from his confession he's clearly knee deep in that compulsion.

Lucas shakes his head, resigned. Pulls out his phone, shows her the number. Kate jots it down.

"At the time I remember thinking- this isn't so bad. I did the right thing. I helped a friend. But after yesterday, I just keep cursing Roy's name."

Kate sighs. This is how she feels about Montgomery too now. Oscillating between admiration and deep disappointment. She squares off to Lucas, needing to make sure he hears her.

"Roy Montgomery was a good man. He made some mistakes but he spent the rest of his life making up for them. Most people would just walk away from the wreckage and never look back, but not him. He claimed responsibility and did whatever he could to protect the ones he loved."

Kate looks directly into Lucas's eyes. Making sure her speech has landed. He nods, he gets it.

"You did the right thing."

* * *

She left Lucas with a one-way bus ticket down to Myrtle Beach under an assumed name. Her instructions were explicit: he was to stay with family until he heard from her that it was safe to come back.

He looked simultaneously nauseas and relieved as she watched him through the smudged window as the Greyhound pulled out.

She palms his cell phone. She had taken it from him after having him leave a message for the mystery man he met in Harlem. She had no doubt that would be faster than trying to track the number down at the precinct. It was also a convenient way to avoid her co-workers while she figured out exactly how to explain the latest twist of events. Besides, she's sure the number belongs to a prepaid burner cell that would only lead to another dead end.

All of this runs through her head as she meanders along the streets of New York. She left the Crown Vic in a garage, not feeling like driving when her brain was trying to examine all this new information.

She lazily twists her way out of Soho and heads up north, back to her apartment. She feels good about seeing the forensic nurse alone – she didn't want to phone Castle at six in the morning when she got the call telling her Lucas' insulin prescription was being filled at a drug store in Tribeca.

She told herself he needed to sleep but really she was hesitant to drag Castle into another dangerous situation the day after a massive car chase. She couldn't condone subjecting him to that level of danger now that she knows the kinds of resources these people have.

Yet each time she tries to think through the rationale behind Montgomery's plan, she hits a roadblock. And her mind goes immediately to what Castle would say in this situation. What outrageous theory would he espouse? What idea would he come up with that would turn the case completely on its head and allow her to see it fresh for the first time?

That irritating quality of his is normally invaluable, albeit frustrating. But on her mother's case - the one she is so close to her vision is overtly myopic - she simply can't operate without it.

So she resolves to call him, but not before she gets home, takes a shower and cleans up. She ran out so quickly this morning she didn't have a chance to grab anything but yesterday's clothes.

A tiny voice in her head points out that her choice seems an awful lot like trying to dress up for a big date but she shoos that thought out of her brain immediately. No, that's not what this is. She just wants to get back home, get presentable before heading into the rest of her day.

She's waiting on the phone call of her life and who knows where it could lead.

She takes a quick right, wanting to cross the street before the major intersection up ahead. As she does so, she notices the black Escalade turning at the end of the avenue. She stares at it as it accelerates past her.

Just to be safe she opts to zigzag north through alleyways the rest of the way home.

* * *

Kate opens the door into her apartment and throws her bag on the couch as she tugs the elastic out of her ponytail. Early morning sun streams in through the windows, casting a spotlight on Josh's material possessions – the heaps of books on the coffee table, the dirty laundry piling up in the armchair, the half empty boxes shoved into a corner.

She sighs. When he suggested they move in together he was simply offering to help her heal from home. But she didn't miss the other implications. They'd been floating along in a stagnant state for a while, so by letting him live with her she'd finally be allowing their relationship to move forward.

He'd done so much for her over the past few months. She didn't want to say no, she didn't want to let him down.

And her rational side felt he was right. It was time to kick things up a notch. So she pushed the small voice that told her it was a bad idea, deep down. Until she could hardly hear it. Until it was so far away she could almost believe it was gone completely.

But that voice had reared up and spewed hundreds of words in a letter all about Castle last night. It explicitly described how much she needed him, how much she depended on him. It tore up the notion that he was merely a friend, instead illustrating in no uncertain terms how he had become the most important person in her life.

Her body sways as she recalls the words she used to describe him – "_infuriating_", "_loyal_", "_immature_," "_passionate_." And what was that phrase she used? Oh yes: "_your endless desire to squirm your way into my life has slowly eroded my resolve and now I no longer wish to stand without you._"

She stumbles into the bedroom, notes the bed is made. The one organized thing in this chaotic mess of an apartment. Josh is extremely considerate. The ideal roommate really. But somehow she doesn't think he'd like it if she put it to him like that.

As she shimmies out of her jeans she glances at the open hutch. She swears she closed it last night, wanting to keep the files and that letter as hidden as possible.

She crosses to the desk, shifts a few papers around, sticks her hand in all the nooks. Nothing.

Her heart starts to pick up speed. Calm down, Kate, this doesn't mean anything. I'm sure Josh just moved them somewhere. But she can't see them anywhere else in the room.

She heads back to her purse, digs out her phone. Hits the call button by his name. He picks up after one ring.

"Hey honey!"

"Hey – did you see some files on my desk this morning?"

"Yeah, they were there. I gave them to Rick. He asked for them when he stopped by this morning."

"You did what?!" She can't help the alarm from springing out of her throat.

Concern fills his voice. "Oh, was I not supposed to? I figured it would be okay 'cause he's… well, he's what he is."

"Ahhhh," Kate digs down deep, trying to control the panic rising within her. "Yeah, sorry. You're right. Next time… next time, just ask."

He can hear Josh sigh in relief. "Sorry. It didn't even occur to me that it wasn't okay to give them to him."

"I know." Kate's doing her best to stave off her hysteria but it's a losing battle. "I better go."

"Love you."

She hears it but her finger's already hit the 'end call' button. Maybe he won't take offense. He knows she's working on a big case. He'll attribute it to that… she hopes.

Kate tosses the phone across the bed. She stretches up, trying to do something with all the nervous anxiety that's filling her lithe body.

Castle has the files. He has the files with her letter. He's read the letter.

No, no. She doesn't know that. He would've called her if he'd read the letter. He couldn't possibly keep that to himself, right?

So he has the files but he doesn't know about the letter. Maybe she can get it back before he does.

Screw the shower. She grabs a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She scrambles for her phone, drops it in her purse and heads out.

She has to get to him before he discovers it. Before it all changes, forever.


	13. Chapter 13

Kate sprints to the front of Castle's door. She got there in record time after telling the cab driver she was a cop hot on a tip and she needed to get there ASAP.

The cab driver was giddy to be helping the NYPD (clearly he doesn't get excitement in his cab very often). He took every liberty he could to get around traffic, and a few more once she told him she wasn't a street cop and wouldn't be citing him for any infractions.

But now that she's in front of his door, fear has her paralyzed. What if he's in there, reading the letter _right_ _now_? What would she say? What would _he_ say? What would they do?

Her logical side takes over. The sooner she gets to him the more likely it'll be that he hasn't seen it yet. This is her best chance at getting it back.

Impulsively Kate strikes the doorbell; it dings in response.

But the sound she hears on the other side is the distinct clicking of heels approaching. Maybe this is why he hasn't read the letter. Maybe he has company.

The door opens and Martha's warm smile greets her. "Kate!"

Martha pulls her in for a hug. Kate feels compelled to reciprocate even though she'd prefer to launch herself inside the apartment so she could start scouring the premises immediately.

"Rick told me you saw him yesterday."

"Yes, I came by," she admits. It's such a casual way to describe all that happened mere hours ago.

Martha's face contorts into a look of bemusement.

Not sure what to make of that, Kate continues on, "I've missed you all."

"Same here Detective." Martha pushes along, shifting gears. "I'm afraid Rick stepped out for a minute. The building manager wanted to show him the plans for the updates to the penthouse units. Rick's been avoiding him for months but the guy finally had him cornered."

Kate's body relaxes. Doesn't sound like he's found the letter. Thank god.

"Alexis is at her friend's house and I'm heading out as well, but you're welcome to wait for him here if you'd like."

"That'd be great. Thanks." As her lips form the words, Kate exhales some of her adrenaline.

Martha gives her an extra long glance, as if she's doing some of her very own investigating. Kate smiles awkwardly, eager for Martha to leave so that she can ransack the place while she has the chance.

"Did you happen to see any files with Castle this morning? He borrowed them and I'd love to get them back."

Martha finishes whatever inner dialogue she's got going on with herself then gathers up her purse and coat. "Yes, I did. Check the office. I think he had them in there last."

"Thanks, I will."

Kate watches her leave before backing up, then jogging, no _bolting_, into his office.

* * *

Kate enters the writer's cave. The plasma screen perched in one corner, sits idle. Late morning light glows through the warehouse-like windows. The broad, oak desk, sits stoutly in the center, neat but obviously well-used**. **

She sees them immediately, the files fanned out along its top. One's open but the rest are shut. Good, good. The letter's probably still hidden in one of those.

She crosses around to his side of the desk, bumps his chair out of the way so she can rummage through the paper.

She gives a cursory shuffle through the open file, nothing. Then pulls out a closed file underneath, sifts through that, comes up empty.

Her heart rate increases. She pulls out another, shuts it once it's clear it doesn't house the letter either. One more file left to go. She extracts it from the rest of the pile, moves through it...

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

No, this can't be happening. She must've missed it.

She goes back, shuffling through all the pages again. This time not caring whether she makes a mess. Whether it looks like she's been here, at his desk, rifling through his stuff.

Well, the files aren't exactly _his_, but still. If he walked in right now, it would _not_ look good.

The second time doesn't yield anything either. She steps back, papers strewn across the desk, a few are littered along the ground. She runs her hand through her hair, her brain ringing loudly with all sorts of crazy scenarios.

_Maybe it fell out of the files on his way home? Maybe he's reading it right now? Maybe he saw it and assumed it was trash? Maybe he's reading it right now? Maybe…._

And it's during this last brainstorm that she finally senses a presence nearby. She looks up, sees him watching her from the bookshelves that form his office doorway.

They stay like that for a long, frozen beat.

Kate's the first to break. "I'm sorry. I thought I remembered reading something in the files last night. I wanted to check them again."

He says nothing.

"I didn't mean to make a mess." She scrambles, shuffling papers together, shoving them into random folders. "I wasn't trying to go through your stuff."

She smiles, a nervous laugh escapes. But still, he says nothing, just keeps at her with that mile long stare.

"Well, anyway. Must've dreamed it. I should, uh… go."

She raises up, leaves the pages askew and heads toward the doorway. Hopeful he'll move long before she gets there.

He doesn't.

"I'll just…" She motions to the door, tries to squeeze herself past him and out of this pressure cooker formerly known as his office.

Just as she's attempting to slip around his robust frame, his hand shoots up, blocking her path.

Her eyes follow the length of his forearm to the pages of her letter neatly splayed out in his fingertips.

It's done now. Nothing she can do.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispers.

She turns away from the letter, unable to face her confession, but now forced to face him. Instinctively her hand goes to her side, rubs the scar where the doctors stitched her up. A compulsive habit she takes part in whenever her nerves are frayed and she's panicking.

She's losing sight of the room. The walls are closing in. Her vision is blurring. She can't focus on anything. She shuts her eyes, desperately trying to calm her hyperventilating heart.

She feels the warmth of him at her side even before he lays his hand over hers, stopping the incessant motion. Not forcefully, just by delicately resting his palm over her fingers. He lets his heat do the rest.

Her mind screams at her to run but her body betrays herself, switching sides mid-battle, won over by the simplest touch along her waist. Who knew all that fear she's been carrying around with her would fade away, like a summer rain, once she knew _he_ knew all her inner thoughts.

He surprises her, laying his lips over hers slowly, hesitantly. Letting the hand at her side slip around to her back. Pulling her in gradually, gently.

They linger like that for what seems an eternity. Their lips joined tenderly. His hand safely securing her back. Her body slowly canting toward his.

She has often thought about the one kiss they shared in that alleyway all that time ago. So unexpected, so intense. Yet she decides this is the more passionate embrace. This is the kiss that tells her just how deep he lies within her already.

And then he pulls away. Leaving her pouting lips cold and alone. She opens her eyes, anxious. Her body not ready for this to end.

What she sees surprises her. The level of concern in his eyes. He's searching for a reaction from her. He's waiting for her to push him away, reject him. He's making sure she doesn't want out.

Out is the last thing her body would allow at this point.

She's overwhelmed by an immediate need to get him to understand that she's not going anywhere. She slips a hand up his shirt and underneath it as it curls around his neck. She circles her other hand to his cheek, stepping toward him, pulling him to her as she goes.

She skates her lips across his, her breath warming them before she dips back in, letting their delicate flesh connect, setting off what feels like a miniature lightning storm in her mouth. She presses her chest to his as she glides her tongue in between his lips. They gently part for her and now she can taste his sweet, coffee tinged tongue. She holds herself to him, stays steady against him.

She should be talking. Telling him everything that's running through her mind. But instead she's communicating all of it with her body. _You have my permission. Do anything you want to me. I am with you, completely._

He abandons the letter in his hand, letting its pages blanket the floor below so he can wrap his other arm around her, tightening his grip on her. A full-fledged response to the statement her body is making.

She clenches the back of his neck in acknowledgment – _you get it, you know what I want_. And now the slow sensual kiss has turned into a frenzied need for one another other. Her chest swells, her hips careen into his, her teeth nip at his swollen lips.

He groans. And she shivers in response.

Their bodies fuse together - all the softness gone – every inch of it replaced by rock hard desire.

He pulls away for a second, just to catch his breath along with his bearings. He leans his forehead against hers and she can see directly into him.

She lingers there, looking into the blue-grey of his eyes. He is waiting for her to hesitate like she has so many times before, to flinch like she did in the precinct. She must stay with him, stay connected. _I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Don't give up on me._

He tightens his grip around her waist and walks her toward his desk. She moves with him, letting him guide her backwards. He stops when her thighs hit its sharp corner.

He's looking at her like he has plans. Her mind is quick to conjure up all sorts of ideas about what it may be as her gaze expectantly flicks from his eyes to his lips and then back to his eyes again.

He keeps her tight to him with one hand while the other leaves her side. She let out a whimper, her body doesn't want any part of him to leave her, ever.

With one hand he picks up the side of the desk. Anything and everything resting on the top – the files, his paperweights, his pens, pencils, laptop – all go flying onto the floor with a huge crash.

She looks up at him, shocked.

"Sorry. Did you want to wait until we got to my bedroom?"

Kate shakes her head vigorously.

"No. No more waiting."

He dips his head down. She follows, her eyes glued to his mouth. He adheres his lips to hers as he wraps both his hands around her waist and lifts, placing her with an emphatic thump on the top of his desk.

"Oh!" Another gasp she wasn't planning on.

He runs his hands down the length of her legs, pulling her boots off. Her feet free, she wraps herself around his waist, while he embeds his hand in her hair and his hips in between her thighs. His jeans are thick but she can still make out the unyielding muscle underneath. She cinches her legs higher up his waist, his instant arousal for her so alluring she only wants to feel more.

Her fingers trail down his shirt, before suddenly yanking at it, letting its buttons fly to the floor as she splits it open. Confronted by his smooth chest she slows down, her hands leisurely slipping underneath the fabric, lazily exploring his chest. His body warm, so warm.

She dives into his neck, at first caressing the soft flesh between his chin and his shoulder but she abandons such delicate strokes for more lurid ones as she lets the wet tip of her tongue trace his clavicle. She softens as she rounds the corner and lightly licks the side of his neck until she has his earlobe clasped loosely in her kiss.

He exhales, a hard raspy release of breath. She hears the desire laced within it as it skates past her ear. _Am I making myself clear?_

Her fingers take over where her tongue left off and they move the remnants of his shirt off his shoulders. Clearing the palette for her, giving her a fresh canvas to paint. His chest heaves at her in anticipation. She lets her fingertips run the course of his torso, sliding delicately over his bare skin, landing suggestively at his belt.

She moves to undo it but he stops her, taking her hands in his, pushing them off him. She looks up, confused. Is he going to end this before it even got started? Is he going to take back everything he said?

All of sudden her head fills with a million fears: _He doesn't want me. He thought he did but he knows now he doesn't. He's going to tell me to go home._

But he looks straight into her as if her thoughts are lines in a book he's reading. He's not going to let her spiral for long. Instead he raises her arms up above her head. He leaves them there as he gently glides his hands down the sides of her. Stopping at her mid-drift, he delicately runs them along the hem of her T-shirt before grabbing a fistful on each side, yanking the flimsy fabric up and over her head.

So this is what he was doing. Tit for tat. Not letting her get too far ahead of him. She's always wanted to be in love with her true equal but she's never had the guts to let anyone else take control. But he is different than all the rest. He speaks Kate, and her body does what he tells it to.

He leans his forehead on hers as he skims his fingertips along her ribs and then back to that clasp, the last thing keeping her from being on an equal playing field with him. He flicks at it and it pops open. Yes, he's truly an expert at this.

He scrapes his fingertips along her shoulder blades until he catches the straps and then he gently tugs them down, down and off her shoulders. The bra tumbles off her, like an expired petal from its flower.

They stay there for a moment, drinking each other in. No kissing, no touching, just _breathing_.

He reaches his hand out, places it lightly on the place where the doctors stitched her up, then slowly, he traces the curves of her chest as he raises it to the place the bullet hit, that round, fleshy stain between her breasts. She lays her hand on top of his, holding it there briefly, before bringing it up to her mouth, twisting his palm so she can kiss it before she lays it on her shoulder. She then unfurls her arms around his neck, gently pulling him to her, letting their skin touch, _really_ touch for the first time. Her back arching so that their hearts can align.

She feels his hands at her back. His fingers blazing thin trails of fire up and down her spine until they meander all the way to her waist, pulling at her button fly, releasing the fasteners one by one. He slips one finger in, then two, brushing them gently across her front. And if she was excited by how turned on she discovered he was when he pressed himself against her, he must be having the same reaction as he roots down deep between her legs, taking the drenched scrap of cotton in between his fingers and pressing into her with it, causing the flooding to swell.

She regrets the gasp that she releases in response because he stops, letting his fingers roam back up to her waist, hooking them around the top of her jeans.

She does a small hop as he yanks the pants down around her knees. She shimmies her legs, finishing the job for him.

Taking her cue she pulls on his belt, releasing it from its catch. His zipper and pants quickly follow. They jingle as he steps out of them, leaving them in a puddle on the floor.

He stops moving. She watches him, his breath ragged, so much happening behind his eyes. The two of them, barely dressed. Her sitting on his desk, him standing before her.

"Kate… are you sure?"

She slips off the desk, keeping her eyes on him the entire time. The heat emanating from their bodies acts as a cocoon of warmth enveloping them both.

She dips her thumbs inside her panties and pulls them down, letting them drop to the floor.

She watches as his breath hitches before a deep exhale tumbles out of his mouth.

She inches toward him, takes her fingers inside the hem of his boxers. She scoots one hand to his front.

"Oh god."

She smiles at the sound of his undoing, a silly glee bubbling up inside her. She always knew she fascinated him but it is so much more than that. This crosses the line of attraction, out of the world of bedposts and conquests and into a deep-rooted need for each another.

She lets her hand lightly rest on him. Feels him completely – soft and warm and rigid. She gently pulls the silk shorts down, and for a moment they both stand there, completely bare, completely exposed.

_I'm yours. Every inch of me. Put your hands all over me. I don't care. I just need you. _

She shimmies back onto the desk, winding her arms around him as she goes. He cups her thighs in his hands, wrapping them around his torso. He then plants one hand on the desk to stabilize them, the other to her back.

She uses her legs to pull him to her and she can feel him hard and hot at her base. She leans away from him, letting his arm take her weight. Giving him the access he needs.

She can't help but moan when his tip enters her. She gasps as he pauses and then pushes all the way inside her. Deep, deep within her. Almost touching the place where she holds everything she feels for him.

She reaches up and lays a soft kiss on his lips. One hand hung around his neck, the other clenching his bicep. Her leg hitches higher up on his waist. Her tongue slips past his teeth, embedding itself inside his mouth.

They form this complete loop. Her inside him, him inside her.

And now she knows why she lied to him.

She lost someone this important to her once and she honestly does not know if she could survive it again.

But there is no going back. No undoing this event. She knows what it feels like to have him within her and it has left an indelible mark. A forbidden tattoo imprinted on her soul.

All her feelings shoved under the rug are out – out, as if released from Pandora's box. There'll be no stuffing them back in. There'll be no putting things back the way they were.

It's done. Forever altered. For always.

And it never felt so good.

* * *

_A/N: So this was the, um, sex chapter. Shhhh, don't tell anybody. ;)_

_This was much harder to write than I anticipated. I made the mistake of thinking, "hey, I've had a fair amount of sex in my lifetime, this should be a piece of cake!" (Not that __having__ sex, by any means, is a prerequisite for __writing__ about sex. But you know, in the moment when you are deciding to write your first fanfic, you think it'll help)._

_I write action usually (which might be obvious from my staccato style – trying sooooooo hard to limit my use of fragmented sentences, it's a dirty screenplay habit…) but I went to this panel where I heard this romance novelist say she approaches sex scenes as if it's an action sequence. I was like "yay, I'll be good at that!" And then I sat down and tried to write it and woah, not easy. _

_So listen, I think you readers are probably pretty good at picking out what makes a sex scene work. If you've got any ideas – or even if you just have a visceral reaction you'd like to share – let me know it. I will conquer the sex chapter if it kills me!_

_Also – I have been a fielding a few very articulate arguments about the inclusion of Josh in this story. This was by far the most controversial choice I made when plotting this fic out, so I totally get why it may not jive for some of you._

_I think there's something specific to fanfic where you have to acknowledge that the characters are dear to many of us, and while I wanted to write about a character who is a good person who makes bad decisions out of fear, it starts to get into a grey area when I have Beckett doing those things – because we all feel like we know her, and we all adore her. (Oh, well I do – so I'm just assuming you guys do too). _

_Point being, I will take all that you guys have said (and continue to say) and factor it in to any new stories I may write in the future. And, if there's room to investigate the issues that have been brought up in the remaining chapters of __this__ story, I will do that as well._

_Most importantly, I do not wish to sully Beckett's character in any way. A person that cheats under these circumstances seems real to me (I'm not condoning the action, I just mean I can buy that it would happen). She let fear dictate her choices until finally she had to loose control, in order to gain control. And now that she's aware of what she's doing, she's going to do the right thing. It didn't happen in the order it should've of, but to me, so much of life works like that._

_Finally - me no own nothin' - all Marlowe & ABC!_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Quick shout out to my beta Katrina who has stuck with me throughout this entire story – thank you so much for all your help! FYI – I often change a good 20-30% after Katrina has returned the chapter to me, so if there's typos, it's all on me!_

_Thanks so much for reading and getting me your thoughts. I definitely feel like I have a much better grasp on the nuances of fanfic now that I've heard from you readers._

_No copyright infringement intended – all characters, etc belong to Andrew Marlowe & ABC._

* * *

"Oh my god. You are so bad at this."

They are both on the living room floor, leaning against his couch. Half-eaten containers of ice cream are littered along his coffee table.

He's shirtless, just in his pants. She's in his button down, her bare legs curled underneath her. She's got one of his neckties tied around her head; it's moonlighting as a blindfold.

She giggles. "Who invented _this_ game?"

"I did. Now open up."

She obliges and he gently guides a teaspoon heaped with a blend of random ice creams into her mouth. She swirls it around.

"Hmmm. A distinct hint of strawberry, but not creamy. Airy, light. Breyer's Strawberry Sorbet?"

He watches as she breaks up the dessert with her tongue, transfixed. It was not that long ago that she was doing that to _him_.

"And then, I dunno, something with nuts. Maybe Coldstone's Cheesecake Fantasy with a little Rocky Road thrown in?" she hypothesizes.

"Is that your final answer?"

She licks the remnants of cream off her top lip and nods definitively, "Breyer's Strawberry sorbet, Coldstone's Cheesecake Fantasy topped with a little Rocky Road."

"Ennnnggg!" He makes a buzzer noise with his mouth. "I'm afraid that is _incorrect_!"

She pulls the necktie down, squints at him. "What was it?"

"Ben & Jerry's Red Velvet Cake topped with Haagan Dazs Blackberry Cabernet."

"The Haagan Dazs is a sorbet! Don't I get partial credit?"

"There's no strawberry or nuts in that concoction, Detective." He jots down a zero by her name on a scrap piece of paper. One in a list of many he has in her column.

"Leave it to you to invent a game only _you_ could possibly win."

"Not true. Alexis schooled me at this last week."

She smirks at the thought of Castle getting creamed by his daughter. "I'd come back to watch that."

He squares his jaw, looks straight at her. She licks the end of her spoon, and he can see her trying her best to squelch the school-girl grin simmering along her lips.

"I'm hoping you never leave."

She holds his gaze, accepting the moment, not running from it like she has so often in the past.

"I'll take your desire under consideration," she says as she bows her head, hiding the pink blooming across her cheeks.

He lingers like that, distracted by her pert lips, their upturned nature, the slope of her nose, the arch of her eyebrows, the weightless waves of her hair, the curve of her neck.

How did he ever, ever concentrate around her?

She leans into him, places a small kiss on his cheek. And he finds the mere scrape of her lips on his skin sends his heart into an erratic spasm. She moves gently down his neck, taking her time, making him squirm.

It takes everything he has to wrap his hands around her shoulders and push her, albeit lightly, away. She looks up at him, perplexed.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just the longer you do… _that…_ the harder it will be to stop. And I just, I don't want to do this again before things are… settled."

He picks his words carefully. Staring deep into her eyes to check for any flicker of emotion. She's the hardest person to read sometimes and this is something he can't afford to make a mistake on.

"Josh."

"Josh." He lets that hang there for a minute. "He loves you."

Kate hangs her head, pulling her bottom lip in as she goes. "You're right."

He swathes a hand around her neck. "I only say this because I know. I know what that feels like."

She looks up, searching the room. "This summer - I didn't know what to do. I couldn't call you-"

He interrupts, "You can _always_ call me."

She places a definitive finger along his jaw. "I couldn't call you. Not if I was going to put everything we've been working toward on hold so that I could concentrate on recovering. I know that seems… backwards. But I don't think I could've done this…" she gestures to the two of them "…_us_, until I was all the way back together. As it is now, I'm still not sure I can handle it."

He leans in, plants a firm kiss on her lips. "You can handle it. We'll handle it together."

She pulls away, just slightly. "That's not what I'm talking about."

He cocks his head, confusion setting in.

"I'm not worried about my mother's case. I have you, I have the boys, I have these leads. I'm not scared of that anymore. That's not why I stayed away."

"Then why?"

He watches her take a deep breath, imagines her searching for the words that seem to so often elude her.

"I don't think I've let myself feel very much since my mom died. I sorta closed all access to any real, significant emotions. I walked around numb for a long while. And that worked for me." She pauses, taking a deep breath as if to gather the courage to continue. "Then you… you just came out of nowhere."

He watches as her eyes start to water, as her lip quivers, as her chest tightens. "And now, you run so deep within me, sometimes I find I can hardly breathe around you."

Unable to keep himself away, he pulls her to him, gathers all of her up in his arms.

His back rests against the foot of his couch. One of his arms is under her knees, the other around her back. Her arm is draped over his shoulder, her nose buried in his neck. Their chests, pushing against each other's, rising and falling in unison.

"Me too," he whispers. "Me too."

* * *

He told her to stay right there, curled up on his couch, his shirt falling off her shoulder, her legs bare, her body still sticky with him.

He made her promise she wouldn't make a single move until he got back.

But that was unrealistic. She couldn't just sit there when her heart, scribbled out on the translucent sheets of her stationary, was strewn like wet leaves across the floor of his study.

She floats – really, she feels lighter now – over to his office. She bends down, gathers the letter up, sifts it carefully back together and folds it closed.

She tucks it in his shirt pocket as she surveys the wreckage from their explosive tryst. Crystal paperweights, an adding machine, his Montblanc pen, his laptop: all scattered along the hardwood. She likens it to the remnants of a bomb blast, their alliance being the incendiary device that set the powder keg off.

Miraculously his laptop landed in such a way that while the corner of his screen is a little worse for wear, the rest seems in good shape. She trips her fingers over the keyboard and the screen springs to life. From a cursory glance, it looks as if everything is operating as it should.

Carefully she reconstructs his workspace, shifting the pens, moving the calculator, trying to get it all back to where it was before. She wants to perfectly preserve it, preserve Nikki, preserve him and all his imaginative genius.

She extracts the letter from his pocket, feeling the weight of it in her hands, its cool exterior betraying the wanton words carved along its face. Before now she would have wanted to take it back home with her, would have wanted to keep it close, protected, safe.

But that feels wrong now. She wrote it for him, she _wants_ him to have it.

So she tucks it surreptitiously into the middle drawer, letting his desk house her deepest, darkest desires. It feels somehow appropriate that these two elements – her, and the place he fantasizes about her – be inexorably linked.

Her work finished, she tiptoes out to the kitchen. Her feet grasping at the different textures of floor – from smooth wood, to furry rug, to slick tile. She glides through the kitchen, opening cupboards looking for mugs. She crosses to his coffee machine – blissfully less complicated than the one at the station - and starts to brew a pot.

While she waits for the grounds to steep, her eyes wander to her purse. She removes Lucas' phone first, no calls. This she already knew, as she tested it when he gave it to her, making sure she would hear it if it rang.

Then, more tentatively, she reaches for her own phone. Sees she has a missed call from Josh. He's probably still sweating giving Castle the files. She knows he's been treading on eggshells around her lately. She hates that she's done that to him, hates that she's driven a confident man into an insecure state.

And then it hits her, really hits her, for the first time. She just cheated on Josh.

She thought, she _thought_ she had real feelings for him. And he was good to her. She could learn to love him, right?

To hear herself admit this in her head sends a shiver through her – the reality of her actions knocking into her like a wave of arctic water.

She used Josh, like a shield, keeping Castle close but still at arms length. Like a fence, she let Josh's presence draw the boundaries around their relationship, penning it in.

This way she could play with Castle without worrying about it going to far. Without worrying her intense attraction to him would take over and she'd cross some line, inadvertently changing everything.

She had been so unbelievably blind to her inner truth. She allowed herself to wallow in her naïveté, convincing herself she wasn't completely and inescapably in love with the man who had dedicated the last three years of his life to her.

Now that she let Castle touch the deepest parts of her, let herself risk her heart on an endeavor she may never come back from, she knows why she really let things with Josh go on for so long:

If she lost Josh, she'd overcome it. She'd hurt but she'd survive.

There are no such luxurious guarantees with Castle.

She runs her fingertip over Josh's name. She's been immature, unfair and hurtful. But today she will end all that.

She wishes she had waited to take things to the next level with Castle but she's not really sure she had any control over that either. Some urgent need took hold of her a few hours ago and she was simply a passenger along for the ride.

But that was then, and this is now. She can take back the reins, she can take responsibility. It will hurt him and her too. She cares for Josh, she does. She doesn't want to hurt him but she knows, a clean-cut ending is the best thing.

She hits redial but he doesn't pick up, instead she gets his message.

"Hey… call me when you get this. We need to talk."

She knows it's cryptic, but she doesn't want to lie to him and she doesn't want to break up with him over voicemail either. This is the best option she has.

The coffee dings, steam rising out of the pot. She pours herself a cup and as she cradles the mug in her hands, letting its mist waft over her face, she hears a knock at the door.

"You forgot your keys?" she calls across the room loud enough so he can hear her.

She giggles as she skips across the hardwood, traversing the room. He really is out of it if he did that, she thinks.

She's so sure it's him she doesn't bother looking out the peephole to check who it is. She just opens it wide, waiting for him to wrap her up in a tight embrace. Her body already fantasizing about having him all over again.

Her mind, so distracted by her thoughts, barely registers the arm that flies up into her face, knocking her sharply backwards.

* * *

He had to go to three convenience stores to find the Phish Food flavor of Ben & Jerry's he was looking for. But it's well worth it if it means he can continue feeding her ice cream.

He smiles, imagining her still outfitted in his button down, lounging on his couch. That devious grin she throws at him when she's being playful, the way her eyes sparkle when he pushes her hair back behind her ear.

He doesn't think he's ever been this happy, except possibly when Alexis was born, but this would be an extremely close second to that.

His smile lingers, all the possibilities of what they can do with their afternoon swimming around in his head. He doesn't even notice his front door is open until he's right outside it.

"Kate," he calls from the hallway, a little confused but assuming she's done something to warrant leaving the door open for him.

He pushes it lightly and it yawns open, revealing the nightmare on the other side.

The first thing he sees is the spray of blood leading to the shattered coffee mug on the floor of his foyer.

His mind, always good at inventing, immediately conjures her up. _Her opening the door, thinking it's him, not registering the elbow that swoops up into her face, knocking into her nose, causing his mug to fly out of her hand and her blood to rain down on his floor._

He finds the rug, the one he was just holding her on, bunched up and stained with large blotches of dark crimson. _She_ _scrambles across the floor, blood flooding from her nose onto the tightly weaved fibers below, as she tries to get away from him._

He notices the stained glass peppered around his living room. _She snatches the vase off the coffee table, turning on her attacker as he lunges for her ankle, bringing it down over his head, stunning him. _

His eyes skip up to the kitchen island, where her purse still sits. From here he can see her gun and badge lying at the top.

She would've gone for that next. But she didn't make it.

_Her assailant recovers from the vase to the head, stumbles up behind her, grabs her by the waist. He picks her up from behind, wrapping his arms around hers, forcing them down to her side. _

_She rears up, legs flailing, knocking his kitchen stools over, leaving them tripped and broken along the floor._

He comes back to the door, sees the smear of blood and coffee. _She_ _drags her heels as her aggressor pulls her toward the doorway._

And finally, her bloody handprint staining the door jam. _She clutches the last stonghold before he successfully yanks her out into the hall._

He falters, the wind knocked out of him as he relives every moment of her terror.

"Kate!" He drops the grocery bag to the floor, calling out her name, panicked. Hoping, beyond reason, she's somewhere in the apartment. Somewhere he can get to her.

He checks all the rooms trying desperately to push away the image of her lying prone, barely hanging on, needing him to get to her in time. But all the rooms are empty. The evidence of struggle only in the living room and kitchen. Nowhere else.

"Kate!" He calls out one more time in a raw, primal scream. Falling to his knees as he lets out the sharp alarm. A futile effort he realizes but he can't keep it in**. **Can't keep himself from demanding she come to him. Even though he knows, knows it deep down in his bones…

She's gone.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Here's 15! Hope it is keeping you entertained! Per usual keep me posted on what you like, don't like. All's good info for me!_

_Thank you to Andrew Marlowe & ABC for letting me use their characters for my devious, albeit financially devoid, purposes! _

* * *

Kate's broken body is plopped down onto a flimsy, wooden chair. A black vinyl sack rests over her head. Her hands are bound behind her back. Castle's shirt, now ripped and stained with her blood, is the only thing keeping her presentable.

She estimates they were traveling for no more than thirty minutes. And she never once heard the shift from riding along sturdy, ground-supported pavement to the more tenuous feel of concrete divvied up by the occasional bridge girder, nor the switch from open to forced air that comes when entering a tunnel. Which can only mean one thing: they never left the island.

The pungent smell of bleach makes its way under her hood. It's so intense she's inclined to think it's an industrial cleaner, something used in a manufacturing plant or an abandoned factory, not where people live or work.

Her legs, scratched and bruised, dangle out from under the shirt. Her feet, cut up and bare, are tucked protectively beneath her. She'd feel cold if her body wasn't pumping massive amounts of adrenaline, keeping her pulse racing and her mind alert.

A minimal amount of light sneaks through the loose hem on her sack but she is essentially blind. She lets her feet cautiously venture out along the smooth, hard floor beneath her. It's either large tile or glazed concrete. The floor of a garage or even a warehouse, maybe?

A firm, calloused hand lands on her left foot, stopping it mid-circle. She can hear the sound of plastic coming apart and then she feels the rough edges of a zip-tie digging into her ankle as he binds it with the chair leg.

She swallows, her mouth already arid. "Who do you work for?"

She swivels her head, following him even though she can't see him, as he ties her other ankle to the chair.

"I'm a homicide detective. You know how hard they come down on guys who mess with someone like me?"

But her reasoning falls on deaf ears. He circles behind her and she hears a click as something attached to the end of her hood is connected to something along the back of the chair.

She hears him get up and then follows his footsteps as they ricochet off the walls, dissipating as they fall away from her. It's a deep, distant echo suggesting the room he's left her in is vast.

She counts: twenty, thirty, forty. Forty-nine. Forty-nine steps before she hears the yanking of a stiff chain and the roll of a metal door as it ascends upwards.

Approximately fifty feet to her right there's a door – an escape. She files that away, an important piece of knowledge she will hopefully be able to use to her advantage sooner rather than later.

Light pours in the gaping hole he's created. She can feel the clement afternoon rays flooding into the room. And she can hear, albeit in the distance, the cool ease of lapping water interrupted by the blast of a ship horn.

The chain rattles as it cascades down, the large door landing with a heavy thud, slicing off the warmth of the sun in one jagged swoop.

She's reminded of the click she heard when he was adjusting her hood. Her fingers scrape the air, eventually maneuvering themselves into a position where she can brush their tips along a threadlike wire taped to the backside of her chair.

She blocks out the fear, focusing instead on how much she's already learned about her surroundings.

She's in a warehouse at the docks on the west side of the city. Whether it's Pier 57 or Ports America, she's not sure - but she's emboldened to have whittled it down to only two possibilities.

The outside noises have ebbed, the cavernous space filled with an ambient hum. Her breath comes into focus, the most immediate sound to her now.

She slows her breathing, keeping her focus forward, her ears pricked and her head low. She may be blinded and tied to a chair but that hardly makes her defenseless. Ball is in their court now. She's ready for them.

Bring. It. On.

"Detective Beckett, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

The P.A. system screeches to life and a voice, deep and foreboding, floats across the room.

She licks her lips, already salty and dry. "Same here. Only wish it hadn't taken you so long to finally come out of the woodwork."

"Well you know what they say. Knock on the devil's door long enough, he's bound to open it for you."

* * *

Castle surprises himself. He's not pacing, nor bouncing off the wall as he often is when Alexis is running late or he can't reach her on her cell. Instead he's sitting calmly at his desk, watching the morbid ballet of cops and crime scene techs dancing around his living room.

Once he had pieced himself together after reliving her terror, he called Esposito. The Detective answered on the first ring, as if he could already sense there was trouble. Castle didn't need to say much, just that she'd been taken while he was out. That was enough.

He spent the time awaiting their arrival gazing out of his study, the evidence of struggle still intact, undisturbed. He didn't want to alter anything that might give them some clue, some idea of where they took her.

Ryan and Esposito showed up first. Castle didn't get up, just let them march through the open door, uninvited. The cavalry soon followed. C.S.U. set up their gearin his living room like performers getting ready to put on some macabre circus. They dusted for prints along the coffee table and the kitchen island. They took samples of blood from the floor. They photographed then collected the shards of glass from the broken vase. They carefully tagged each item with a cheerily bright evidence marker. Transforming his living room from a place of connection and comfort into a desolate crime scene.

He vaguely remembers Ryan taking a seat on the couch next to him, asking him about the moments leading up to the abduction. He didn't have much to say but he told him about Montgomery's letter and how it led them to a forensic nurse at St. Joe's Hospital.

Ryan immediately wanted to interview him but Castle cut him off. Kate had already told him she sent Lucas packing that morning. There was no one to talk to, nothing to find.

But he mentioned the black Escalades from yesterday. He thought for sure those were important. But other than the make and model of the car, and a rough description of the two men who fled the scene - white males, six feet or so, well built, crew cuts - there really wasn't much else to say.

He left out the part about finding Kate's letter and all that ensued afterward. He didn't dare utter a word of that majestic memory for fear the current situation may taint it, leaving it forever stained with the hideous turn of events.

So Ryan, picking up on the hint Castle was giving him that he had nothing else to offer, went back to join Esposito in the foyer to discuss their options. Leaving Castle where he is now, unable to tear his eyes away from the performance in front of him.

Castle watches as Ryan whispers something to his partner. Esposito's head pricks up and he sends a wary glance Castle's way. They are discussing his mental state, he knows. He doesn't care, he's embracing his anesthetized condition.

He averts his gaze though, not wanting to participate in any sympathy chats intended to lift his spirits. That's when he notices the middle drawer of his desk is slightly ajar. He reaches down to right it, but it won't close all the way.

He opens it up, sees Kate's letter neatly tucked inside. He pulls it out, inhales the trace of cherries she left infused in its pages.

His thumb runs along the edges of the letter, keeping it closed. Not wanting to open her up in this environment.

He flashes back to what was merely hours earlier: Him finding the letter in the midst of the files. Him dismissing it as scrap until he read his name scrawled in her handwriting along the top.

His curiosity piqued, he justified reading it since it was addressed to him. But by the time he was halfway down the page, he knew instantly this was a confession of hers he wasn't supposed to see.

He remembers now he had stopped breathing. Who knows how long he would've gone if Martha hadn't traipsed the Building Manager into his office. He looked up, startled. His mother giving him a what-on-earth-is-going-on-with-you glare and he had to inhale just to try to wipe the shock off his face.

Unable to think of a way to get the Building Manager out of his office faster, he agreed (finally) to go see the plans for the changes they were making to the upper units. He stuffed the letter in his jacket pocket, letting it burn a hole there while he 'hmm'-ed and 'ahhh'-ed through the blueprints.

And then, when he was finally freed, he was unable to wait to read the letter. Pulling it out the minute the elevator doors shut. He didn't even hit the button for his floor, just stood there in the enclosed space, reading and rereading her words.

She was a beautiful writer. Direct, not flowery. Only the vaguest hint of poetry behind her phrasing. Which left her sentences so brutally honest that it took his breath away.

He understood immediately, all the conflict raging inside her. All the fear. And all the longing… for him.

As if the letter were a key, the floodgates to his heart unlocked and he felt a warmth spreading through him.

He had to go to her. Tell her this was how he felt, too. So he could gather her in her arms and make him his. Finally.

But he couldn't figure out how. Should he call? But what would he say? Should he go to her apartment? The precinct? And when he got there, how the hell would he start the conversation?

Then, when he had returned to his apartment, there she was. Rummaging through the files in a heated frenzy. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Her panic making the letter all the more real.

Of course this is how she would feel thinking he had just perused her most intimate thoughts. And when she looked up at him, he didn't need to say anything because it was clear. She had hidden her letter in the files and he had, through an odd set of events, miraculously gotten his hands on it.

Who knew he'd ever feel this grateful for Josh?

When she tried to escape, let her fear overtake her and run away from him, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

After years of miscommunication and missteps, the enigma that was Kate Beckett snapped into place and he read her like an open book. Cracked her spine and peeled her pages apart.

He kissed her, and then pulled back. Waiting to see what was going through her mind. He had expected to have to fight her more. To have to show her just how right they were together.

But before he could lean back in, making another stellar argument with his lips and tongue, she was on him. Pulling him toward her. Pressing against him.

She was finally letting it be real. She was finally giving in. All he needed to do was keep up with her.

He recalls how her lips burned as they tripped along his skin. How his flesh ignited when she pressed her naked body to him. How warm he felt when he was nestled deep inside of her.

And how cold he feels in contrast now. Her body locked somewhere far away in a place he may never, ever find.

Thwap! His fist pounds the oak sending a plume of fingerprint dust high up in the air.

The circus of investigators splayed out before him, snap their heads up in unison. All drawn to the noise, all fearing the explosion that will follow.

But Castle just folds the letter and places it gently inside the hollow of his desk drawer, and then shuts it.

* * *

"So you're the devil?" she asks, forcing her intonation to carry a playful curiosity.

His bemused chuckle radiates out of the speaker system. "In this scenario, yes."

"Any devil I know would face his opponent. Wouldn't slink along in the background, keeping his enemies in the dark."

The man on the other end of the speaker gives her words some thought.

"Maybe so. But I'm a special breed. And in order to execute my technique, I need my anonymity. I hope you understand."

Her brow furrows, evaluating all this new information. This 'polite' male, highly educated, older – forties, fifties even. Well-read, an intellectual… with a graduate degree. And no history of menial labor in his life – he's a lawyer, or a professor. Someone who works with his mind.

Someone who plays mind games for a living.

"I'm not one to hold a grudge," she responds, thinking two can play this game.

Kate hears a clearing of the throat magnified over the P.A.

"Good. Then we can get started."

* * *

Ryan knocks on the bookshelf outlining his office door. "We're gonna head out. Let C.S.U. run the tests while we talk to neighbors, see if anyone saw anything."

Castle doesn't look up. "Uh huh."

Ryan lingers. "Is there anything…?"

"No. Just call me. The minute you hear _anything_, call me."

"We will." Ryan throws him a half-hearted smile before turning away. "Oh!" He stops himself, picks up Beckett's satchel out of the living room and brings it to him.

He cautiously places it on Castle's desk, as if it's a centuries-old heirloom that might disintegrate if not handled with the utmost care.

"Espo's got her gun and her badge, but we thought you might want to hold onto this until she gets back."

Castle gazes at it, Ryan's insinuation none too subtle. He'd be more appreciative if a part of him wasn't so sure it was a lost cause. "Yeah. I'll hold it for her."

Ryan trades him a weak smile and heads out, letting the front door snick shut behind him, leaving Castle alone to wallow in the wreckage.

The wave of quiet rolls in and surrounds him, like a wet fog. The exact same quiet he was swathed in no less than forty-eight hours ago. Before she came back into his life bringing all the noise and chaos along with her.

The irony is amusing but his heart is too bruised to laugh.

He pulls himself up then crosses to the bottle of Jameson he tucked away behind a set of encyclopedias after he noticed Alexis had gone around pouring all the liquor down the sink.

He had jokingly referred to it as his mind-eraser serum – something he went to whenever the pain of Beckett had gotten too much and he needed to escape. He didn't enjoy getting drunk, much preferred to deal with his troubles sober. But some problems just won't go away. And so the mind-eraser serum was born, specifically for those days he just couldn't live with the pain.

Today seemed to qualify.

He stumbles to the kitchen in search of a proper tumbler but abandons that plan when he discovers it's still covered in glass – apparently C.S.U. doesn't clean up after themselves. So he opts to drink straight out of the bottle.

It's two-thirds full but he calculates that should only get him through the afternoon.

* * *

He's working his way from buzzed to drunk when he hears the unfamiliar ring. He goes for his phone first, of course, but quite quickly he realizes it isn't the one going off. He wanders toward the tinny chime in a daze, heading back into his study, his hand strangling the neck of the bottle as he goes.

He sees light coming from Beckett's purse and he ambles to it, assuming it's her cell. But when he gets there he realizes the cheap flip phone is the one making all the noise.

He pulls it out, peers at it, mystified. Only then does he realizes how effectively he fogged his brain; using it to connect clues now is like trying to pull shards of eggshells out of molasses.

He flips the phone open, sees the caller ID reads "unknown". His thumb hovers over the end button – the devil on his shoulder whispering in his ear: _"don't answer it, go back to the Jameson, go back to making yourself numb."_

But the curious cat perched on the opposite shoulder wins out and he spontaneously hits the 'answer' button.

"Lucas?" the voice from the other end of the line spits in a sharp whisper. "I told you yesterday, you can't call here anymore. Do you understand me?"

Castle's mind slowly pulls itself together. So this is Lucas' phone, and the guy on the other end is the one who connects Lucas to Beckett's mother's murder.

And his voice sounds oh-so-familiar. Castle takes one brief half-second to admonish himself for getting intoxicated when he so badly needs his wits about him now. But there's no time for any serious self-flagellation.

He needs to keep this man talking.

"Mmhmm…" Castle lets himself trail off, the less he says the better.

"You were doing Montgomery and I a favor by bringing me those files. You took a risk couriering sensitive information like that. I get it. But you're out of it now. _Stay_ out of it. You hear me?"

Like stepping away from a pointillism painting, Castle can suddenly see all the dots congealing into a unified picture. This man is connected to both Lucas _and_ Montgomery. And the files he's referring to are the files Montgomery gave him to keep Beckett safe.

"Smith?"

Castle can hear the ragged breathing through the receiver and he imagines Smith processing the sudden change in events, catching up to where he is.

"What are you doing, Mr. Castle?"

"They've taken her. You have to help me."

"I can't. It's too late."

"No, it's _not_ too late. You have to tell me where she is!"

"I don't know where she is. If they've done this then… then they don't care about the material I have on them."

"You don't know that. Make a call. Remind them we have leverage."

"_We_ do not have leverage, Mr. Castle. _I_ have leverage. And if they've chosen to ignore me, there's nothing more I can do."

"Bullshit."

"Goodbye, Mr. Castle."

"No!" But before he gets the word out, Castle hears the decisive click followed by the sharp shift from live static to silence. Smith's already gone.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: We're nearing the end – thank god! Here's 16 a day early – and the rest will follow soon if I can finagle it!_

_Thanks to those who have written me or written a review of the story. It's so informative to hear your thoughts. Totally brings up new perspectives I hadn't even thought of! Keep it up if you have the inclination._

_So thrilled that I am not Andrew Marlowe, nor ABC, as they are doing such a fabulous job with the new season (or so it seems from the promos online!). I am so excited to be a passenger on their fun train come Monday. That said, I do not own any of their creations. I'm just borrowing them for the time being. Thank you!_

* * *

The room is dark - day having slipped away into night - and the warehouse is quiet, minus the gentle hum of industry air conditioners whirring in a dull harmony.

Kate, crumpled in her wooden chair, twitches in anticipation, curling into herself, as if awaiting a blow.

ZINGGG! Heavy metal blares through the P.A. system and floodlights strobe on and off. The cacophony of sound and light comes together in a twisted orchestra to torture the senses.

The demonic symphony assaults the room for thirty seconds before cutting out abruptly.

Kate's body relaxes, melting into the luxurious calm that's taken over her surroundings. It's in these moments that she immediately hunts for the fresh memories of her interlude with Castle.

_His palm on her bare thigh. His lips along her neck. His hand sifting through her long, dark curls. _

_Him pressing himself to her as he lifted her up onto his desk. His chest expanding against hers. _

_His hand wrapped around her back, holding her in place, keeping her anchored to him._

_And that look he gave her - that uncalculated one that told her this is serious for him, this is real – as he sank himself deep inside her._

She can get through anything if her mind has him to occupy it.

The P.A. squeaks and Kate braces herself. She thought she had more time. But instead of music and flashing lights, she hears his fiendish voice.

"How are you liking it so far?"

Kate licks a cracked lip while she corals her inner strength. "Very theatrical. Avante guarde. But a little lacking in the originality department. I give it four stars."

A biting laugh echoes off the walls. "Amusing. Well, if that's not enough for you, we can always up the stakes."

"This is your show. Entertain me." If this is a game, she needs to let him know just the kind of opponent he's decided to play.

"I like your spirit."

She can hear a jingling of keys, a thud and a switch being flipped, followed by the whine of power surging through machinery.

And just as she's trying to figure out what all that could mean, there's a sharp tug on the back of her hood and the vinyl is sucked into her face, blocking her nose and mouth. She thrashes in a vain effort to keep the bag from suffocating her.

Her vision blurs. The thoughts of Castle's body moving against hers - the feel of his stubble against her smooth chin, his hot breath along her ear, the way he cradled her body to his - slips away.

She fights, trying to keep her best weapon close but it's no use.

Her limbs tingle and her lungs lock but just before an inky black can roll completely through her, taking her out of the equation forever, the machine switches off and the bag releases. Fresh, cool air rushes in from under its seam.

Kate takes deep, compulsory inhales, filling her starved lungs.

"How's the performance now? Feel more unique?"

Kate wheezes, wanting to form a calm, clear response but her voice is stuck somewhere in her throat and she can only shift uncomfortably in her chair.

"Thought so."

Kate coughs, a deep rasp originating in the back of her chest, right where it burns.

"I warn you, you may want to take a deep breath."

Kate hears the flip of the switch and the scraping of metal on metal just before the bag goes taut again.

* * *

Castle pushes his way into the hospital's enormous lobby. It's the third hospital in the area with a doctor named Michael Smith. He curses Montgomery under his breath for picking a point man that has such a common name.

Castle beelines for the receptionist. "Does a Dr. Michael Smith work here?"

The receptionist raises her head, a fresh face high-school student probably volunteering for extra credit. She motions for him to wait a second while she looks it up.

"Oncology. Fifth floor."

"Thank you." It's hard for him not to see a little bit of Alexis in her, so he gives her a warm smile and she grins girlishly back. A tiny bright spot in the midst of this nightmare.

As he boards the elevator he tries to ignore the nagging question that's been eating at him for the past hour. If he actually finds Michael Smith – _the_ Michael Smith - what will he say to him?

This concern occupies his thoughts for the entire ride and when he exits the elevator he is still mulling it over as he wanders down the hall. The corridor is full and the door with the doctor's name on it is ajar so he slips inside before he has a chance to think better of it.

He stands in the middle of the office, unsure exactly how to proceed, but observing – not touching – just looking. The commendations strung up on the wall, the diploma from Tufts Medical School, the awards for excellence in his field. Castle shakes his head, something about doctors and their need to post their victories for all to see.

But in between the awards Castle examines the doctor's real prized possessions: his personal pictures. Dr. Smith with his family, his children, on a fishing vacation, at the top of the Alps in Switzerland, on a Ferris wheel in Coney Island. Hard to imagine this Dr. Michael Smith as the Michael Smith who struggled when he came back from the war. The one who floundered until he found himself so deep down the rabbit hole that he had to have his brother's cop-friend bail him out.

Castle's almost convinced himself to leave, cross this doctor off his list before moving on, when he sees it. The picture of three men holding up beers in a salutatory gesture inside a warm, wooden hunting lodge. Two look related and one looks exactly like a young Roy Montgomery.

"Can I help you?"

He recognizes the voice immediately and when he turns around to face the person it belongs to, he can see the flit of recognition in their eyes as well.

To his credit, Smith tries to cover for himself. "If you're looking for a specialist you should check in at the front."

Castle studies the doctor as he walks around him, giving Castle an extra wide birth as he takes a seat behind his desk.

Smith pretends to review a patient's record, but when Castle doesn't move he finally looks up.

"What do you want?"

"You know exactly what I want."

The two men stare at each other but the physician is the first to break. Sighing as he dips his head toward his desk.

"This is not what I signed up for."

"I know. But she's in danger, real danger. I can't sit back and let it happen. I can't wait for them to be done with her. Roy wouldn't want that either."

"All due respect, you have no idea what Roy wanted in terms of this… predicament."

Castle cocks his head, he has all sorts of ideas about that comment but he suspects if he dives in with those now, he'll only succeed in ruffling the practitioner's feathers.

"Roy was a good man. A very good man," Smith mutters to himself. "But he was flawed."

"Deeply," Castle interjects, hoping that by commiserating he'll inspire the doctor to come to Kate's aid.

"I owe him my life. I wouldn't be here," he gestures to his office "with a wife, a child, a career, without him. When we first met, I was headed down a… a bad path. If it weren't for Roy, I'd be in jail or six feet under by now."

"So that's why you're doing him this favor?" Castle has long since made that deduction, but echoing Dr. Smith's thoughts seems a wise strategy for eliciting his help.

Michael nods. "It was a tough decision, but I couldn't tell him no. I could never tell that man no."

"You say you and Roy were close, that you knew him well. But Roy wouldn't want you to let Detective Beckett get hurt. Roy would want you to step in."

The oncologist shakes his head out of frustration. "I wish I could…"

Castle's emotions are roller-coasting and he's about to hit a low. "Then make the call."

Smith looks up at him and Castle can see in his eyes that he's already made his decision.

"I'm sorry. They already know what I have on them and they're doing this anyway. There's nothing more that can be gained by calling again."

"You don't know that."

"I'm not willing to push them only to find out the hard way."

The roller-coaster hits another dip and Castle can't control himself. Both his hands land firm on the doctor's desk. "This isn't optional."

Smith glares at him. "Oh yes it is, Mr. Castle."

The physician lets his retort hang there for a second, showing Castle he's not intimidated. "I told you explicitly how this arrangement was to work. She would have to step down, stop investigating. You didn't hold up your end of the bargain. That's why she's in trouble. This is on _you_."

The roller-coaster brakes hard. The knife in Castle's exposed heart twisting with each word.

"You didn't give me enough time." It's an excuse, but it's all the writer has.

"Doesn't matter. What's done is done." Smith, dismissive, shuffles papers along his desk, deciding the conversation is finished. "Now if you excuse me, I've got some-"

The physician doesn't notice the hand that snatches his button-down until it's got a fist-full of his shirt and it's raising him out of his chair.

Castle brings the doctor's face up to his. The threat tumbles out of his mouth, low and menacing. "Make the call."

Smith stares up at him with a mix of fear and shock. But Castle's long past playing this man for information, he's moved out of the bargaining and right into the bullying phase. He will not stand down.

It seems that Smith has gotten the message because after a long pause he reaches for the phone but before he can get his hand wrapped around it, it starts to ring. A loud, grating, office-appropriate jingle that visibly surprises both Castle and Smith.

Baffled by the odd timing, Michael picks up the phone. "Dr. Smith?" he answers in a professional tone, as if unsure whether a patient or the devil, is on the other end of the line. Castle watches as the doctor's face turns from somber to shocked.

Smith lifts his head, the receiver dangling at his ear, his face ashen.

"They want you to go outside."

* * *

Castle stumbles out of the hospital's sliding glass doors and immediately sees the black Escalade idling in the drop-off lane.

He wasn't anticipating this turn of events. He knew he was going to confront the doctor and he expected to have to twist his arm, forcing him to put pressure on whoever's orchestrating all this. He also knew Smith would resist, but if it came down to a battle of wills, Castle was confident he'd win.

But he never anticipated Smith would go to make the call, only to tell Castle they were already here, waiting for him.

When Castle decided to investigate Johanna Beckett's murder on his own all those years ago he imagined it would be thrilling, fun and maybe even a little dangerous – but in a fantastical way, not a violent one. But the danger is real now and for perhaps the first time in his life, fear has taken a hold of him. As he marches to the seemingly benign vehicle, he can't help but feel he may be taking his last steps in this world.

He eyes the car as he nears it, its windows tinted like the ones that were behind them when they were chasing Lucas, but this car does not have the smooshed front end of the one that tangled with the Audi, nor the beat up exterior of the one that was abandoned in front of the park.

A back door unlatches for him, and all he can see is the dark-blue-blazer-clad arm that holds it open. The rest is a black void, minus a shine running along the steel tip of a gun located deeper in the cab.

"Get in."

Against his better judgment (that's what desperation does to you), Castle clambers into the car. He follows the end of the pistol as it gestures for him to take a seat next to a well-dressed African-American male, also dressed in a navy suit, earpiece dangling from his ear, tinted sunglasses perched on the edge of his nose.

The man with the gun, Caucasian, beefy and sporting a similar earpiece, jostles Castle as he pats him down.

"Careful, buddy. You haven't paid for my dinner, yet."

Gun Guy doesn't acknowledge Castle's crack, instead he keeps going until he finds Castle's cell and snatches it out of his pocket.

"Ow! Didn't anyone teach you how to do that without pinching your subject?"

Gun Guy looks to his African-American boss sitting across from him. "He's clean."

Boss Man smiles. "Mr. Castle. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." He snaps his fingers and the door shuts just before the car lurches forward, exiting the hospital.

"I feel bad, you knew _I_ was coming yet I don't know anything about _you_. Other than you tried to run my partner and I, and a poor kid on a bike, off the road yesterday."

Boss Man pulls at his cuffs, acknowledging Castle's dig. "That wasn't me. But that was our friends, yes. Sorry if we ruffled any feathers."

"Friends?" He looks at the two of them. "You two don't seem like extroverts. But don't mind me, I shouldn't make snap judgments."

"But it's what you're so good at, Mr. Castle."

The novelist cocks his head, huh?

"Writing all those books. Daydreaming about espionage, assassinations and murder? Assuming _you_ know what it's like to do what we do, day in and day out."

"I suppose it might seem that way to an outsider, but then again… what exactly _do_ you do?"

"I like your tactics. Straight and to the point. Let me return the favor."

"Please."

"Your girlfriend-"

Castle goes to cut him off, but he won't let him.

"Your girlfriend, or whatever you want to call her for now, is in a lot of trouble."

"I was hoping you could help with that," Castle offers. If this man likes the direct approach, this request should be right up his alley.

Boss Man shakes his head. "Not so fast. There are a few conditions."

"Like what?"

"You do what we say, when we say, _whenever_ we say it."

"Why?"

"Because, my supervisor would like a little assurance that Kate Beckett is concentrating on her job instead of her extra curricular activities, for the foreseeable future."

"Who is your supervisor?"

"Going for the gold right out of the gate? Gutsy." Boss Man smirks, amused by his own joke. "There will be no big reveal here today. You won't be slaying any dragons on my watch."

Castle leans forward, wanting to give his words that extra weight. "Why is Kate such a threat to you people?"

Boss Man laughs, a big throaty chuckle that emerges from deep inside his chest. "Threat? Oh no, Kate Beckett is no threat. Quite the contrary. She's our most valuable pawn. And we don't want to lose her midgame."

Castle gazes at him, puzzled.

"Don't look so surprised, Mr. Castle. You think someone with _our_ resources, with _our_ authority, couldn't have had her removed years ago? No, no. We _need_ Kate Beckett. We need her to keep our enemies occupied in those moments that most please us."

So this is their endgame. Keep Kate around so they can use her whenever it fancies them. Why didn't he see this was their strategy from the beginning?

"What are your resources, _exactly_?" Castle wants to keep this guy talking as long as possible, wants to keep learning as much as he can about this ever-evolving saga.

"Unfortunately, your limited rank doesn't allow me to share such privileged information with you."

Castle points to the pin on Boss Man's lapel. "But you work for the Secret Service, right? I recognize the pin from my time shadowing the CIA."

"You are nothing if not diligent about your research."

"You have no idea. Like I'd bet from your ranking here in the car," he gestures to Gun Man across from them, "that you're an Inspector and he's just a Sergeant, as indicated by the insignia on his shoulder patch."

Boss Man shifts uncomfortably. Castle can see he's getting somewhere, so he persists, the floor still his. "Everyone knows you guys normally protect former Presidents, the VP and POTUS – but I can't imagine the one behind all this would ever pull from that detail to deal with me. Therefore, my guess is you're from the rotating pool that watches over visiting Heads of State. Am I warm?

"Not bad. I wouldn't want to come up against you in a game of Clue."

"Good instinct. I kill at Clue. But my real specialty is sniffing out motive."

Boss man slides him a sideways glance, playing intrigued but Castle thinks there may be a bit of trepidation mixed in with his interest.

"You said it yourself. Whoever you work for has one powerful agency behind him. If he wanted Kate Beckett dead, she'd be dead. Thus in turn, if he wanted her alive and occupying your so-called enemies, then that's what she'd be doing _right now. _Instead she's off God-doesn't-even-know-where and you're sitting here chatting with me."

Boss Man nods, acknowledging Castle has successfully scratched the surface.

So the author continues, hoping his insights will earn him a reward. "Something's gone horribly wrong. Your pawn is no longer on the board. That's why _you_ need _me_."

"Very astute, Mr. Castle. It's a pleasure to watch your powers of deduction at work." Boss Man picks at some lint, as if buying time to decide exactly how much latitude he's going to give Castle before throwing him out of the car. "Kate has been taken by someone… out of our purview. And we would like her back."

"Then stop wasting my time with all this ridiculous small talk and help me find her!"

Boss Man thrusts his full weight forward, cutting Castle's intensity off at the knees. "We're getting to that, Mr. Castle," he hisses. But first you need to agree that from this point on you will do exactly as we say. If we tell you to jump, you jump, no questions asked. We own you from here on out. Capiche?"

Castle nods, he hates it, but he has no choice.

"Second, we will communicate through Smith. He'll be our liaison. Do as he says, when he says, and don't ask questions."

Castle stares ahead, his heart falling with every bargain he's making with this devil.

"Third, and this is really the most important, you will steer Kate away from her mother's murder for the time being. No letting her investigate on her own, no researching cold cases, no re-interviewing witnesses, none of that. We've got bigger fish to fry at the moment and we need our enemies focused on other tasks. Do you agree to these terms?"

Castle swallows, everything in him wanting to scream and yell at this asshole for wasting his time while he strings out his ultimatum. But the novelist will agree to anything at this point, even if it makes him sick to his stomach to think of trying to execute these lofty parameters back in the real world. Assuming he even gets Kate back in the real world.

"Mr. Castle…. Do. You. Agree?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. We are pleased to have you on board."

Castle leans back. He gave Boss man everything he wanted but he's not leaving without some reciprocation. "Now it's my turn. Turn all your hi-tech equipment on and find my partner before your deal with me becomes null and void."

"Already done." He snaps his fingers again and Gun Guy leans over, passes him a scrap of paper along with Castle's phone. "You are a smart man, Mr. Castle. And you're good at reading people. But you were wrong about one thing."

"What?"

"God knows _exactly_ where she is."


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Here's 17 – enjoy! _

_Since I can't send him a PM, I want to personally thank guest Donald Frost for giving me such a nice review! Succinct, to the point and ever so encouraging. I hope you continue to be entertained by my story._

_On a side note – I am so unbelievably excited for Monday! My will is as strong as a wet leaf so of course I have perused all the sites and seen all the promos. Obviously I will not mention anything about them here for those of you with better will power than I, but I will say that throughout my years as a passionate TV watcher so often I feel like they do it wrong, like they exhale the moment instead of milking it. So I am unbelievably thrilled that they seem to be doing it right with this one! (No jinx intended)._

_And I'll follow that acknowledgment with the fact that I do not own these precious characters nor the world they live in. Andrew Marlowe & ABC do!_

* * *

He called Esposito immediately and gave him the address. The detective didn't ask him where he got it, just warned Castle not to go there alone.

Castle said of course he wouldn't, but he was lying. He was already on his way to her. Waiting was simply not an option.

So he isn't surprised when he shows up at the docks and there's no police cars in sight. He briefly considers the consequences of searching for her without backup, but he instantly pushes them aside – unable to stay rooted along the sidelines while she's still out there, alone.

He realizes, however, that the chances of finding her quickly are low. The docks are huge, with several warehouses lining the waterfront. Boss Man didn't include a building number with the address (Castle's sure it was a calculated choice just to screw with him) so he has to search each one individually.

He drives all the way to the end of the wharf and moves northward, ticking them off as he goes. Trying to keep the magnetic pull of her from distracting him - sending him into a frenzied state - making him overlook something. He will get to her, but he'll get there faster if he doesn't let the panic set in.

But it's tough. She's so close – closer to him than she's been in hours – and he swears he can feel her presence. He comforts himself by thinking maybe she can sense him too; maybe she can feel him closing in on her.

"I'm coming for you, Kate," he whispers under his breath. "I'm coming for you."

* * *

Kate's body spills out of the chair, its flimsy wooden frame barely able to contain her anymore. She moans, exhausted from being brought to the brink of annihilation and back to life, over and over again. The twitching of her fingers and the tiny rise in her chest are the only things indicating she's not gone yet.

She tries to focus on the lining of the bag, that little pocket of light that is seeping in from underneath, reminding her she still has time to breathe. She forces her chest to expand as long as possible, stealing as much oxygen as she can, prepping herself for the next round. But her lungs are burning from extensive abuse and she's seeing spots in front of her – reminding her of warm sun flares kicking off a field sprinkled with dew.

She goes with the image – a happy fantasy. Bringing with it an abundance of warmth and comfort. If she can't focus on Castle anymore, maybe this image will anchor her.

Her muscles ease, her head clears. _Yes, yes. That's better. _ Her emotions ebb in lieu of her mind focusing. _That's it. That's it. You're still in control._

Static out of the P.A. system announces her foe's presence even before he starts talking. She twists in an involuntary response, unable to hide her dread.

"I have no doubt your will is strong, Detective Beckett. But there is no use fighting this. You will succumb. You will suffer. And for what? To bring your mother back? No, that'll never happen. All you'll have succeeded in accomplishing is driving the hurt home. Making the pain last longer. Ruining yourself and hurting the ones around you while you do. Your mother's death was not your fault. But _this_ is."

She whimpers, his words affecting her more than she would ever admit out loud. She doesn't want to believe him, but her body is broken and her mind is teetering on the edge, soon to follow.

As she tries to keep the image of the field at dawn alive, her mind takes a twisted turn and Montgomery appears wearing a black suit, looking completely out of place in the middle of the pasture. He opens his mouth, but his reassuring grin has morphed into a chastising grimace.

"_You should've let things lie, Beckett. Some cases are not meant to be dredged up out of their grave."_

She shakes her head vigorously at him, _"no, no, no,"_ as she paints herself into the expansive green, standing only a few feet away from her fallen mentor.

He continues on his rampage._ "You let your pride get the best of you. You fancied yourself better, stronger than everyone else. You thought you and you only could finish this. That was blatant stupidity on your part. You didn't see what I did. That we are only cogs in the wheels of this industrial-sized conspiracy." _He dips his head as if it can no longer take the weight of his disappointment in her. _"And now look at you. You finally found love and you're about to lose your life."_

She knows what's going on, why her mind is playing tricks on her. Her fear has taken over and it's using everything in its power to fuck with her. But it doesn't take away how real Montgomery appears – how vibrant, how vivid he looks as he stands before her. And so his words hit her like stinging lashes from a whip.

"_I can't help you anymore. You're on your own."_ He pauses, making sure his disapproval hits home, before turning and walking away from her.

She finds herself mouthing the words: _"Come back. Please. Come back."_

But he doesn't listen. Instead he looks over, acknowledging a faint shimmer that starts as a burst before fanning into a bright glow, filling out into the limber silhouette of a woman.

Beckett can barely look at the figure; the light shining behind her is so bright. But when Montgomery extends an elbow, gesturing for the woman to walk with him, Kate watches as the figure turns to her former hero and in so doing, reveals her profile.

Kate studies the two of them, how they greet each other, like the dearest of old friends. Under normal circumstances an image like this might make her smile but she is unable to appreciate the union. Instead she's completely distracted by the long line of the woman's form; obsessed with how eerily similar it is to her own outline.

Before Montgomery can pull her away, the woman turns to Kate, the smile fading from her lips.

"_If you could've just moved on, like we all wanted you to…"_

Her words inspire the tear brimming in Kate's eye to roll down her pink cheek.

The woman takes Montgomery's arm, and they languidly walk away, traipsing through the grass and milkweed and wildflowers, heading for the darkened forest Beckett's mind has suddenly envisioned up ahead.

Kate kneels, dropping into the grass, her face stained with a flood of salty tears that seem to have spontaneously erupted. Abandoned and alone, she watches both their bodies transform into dark specks in the distance.

She only has the chance to utter one word before the bag shrinks around her head and she's fighting for her life all over again.

"Mom?"

* * *

He's already wasted many precious moments running in and out of an endless number of buildings. He knows he must look deranged to all the dockworkers watching him scurry inside one door, disappear for a few seconds, then reemerge only to sprint full-speed over to the next one.

Eventually he got away from the working barges and entered a more secluded part of the shipyard. Most of these depositories held shipping containers or nautical equipment but some are just bare, housing only their steel girders.

It takes his eyes a minute to adjust when he finally enters her warehouse. He rushes through the unlocked door, just like he did with all the rest, and stops, waiting through several nerve-wracking seconds as his eyes adjust from the bright daylight outside. But this building is so much darker than the rest and it takes a while before the details of the gaping space come into focus.

At first he thinks he's just looking at someone sleeping but the minute he makes out the edges of her long, lean legs jutting out from his ragged shirt, he knows.

"Kate!"

He runs, no _races_, across the room. But it doesn't change things. She's still limp.

He pulls the hood off her, wraps his hand around her jaw. Her eyes are closed.

"Kate. Can you hear me?"

But her head just lolls to the side in response. He presses an ear to her chest and is so thrilled when he can make out the tiniest, intermittent rasp.

The door blows open and Ryan and Esposito rush in.

Castle looks up at them, already at her ankles, undoing her restraints.

"Call an ambulance. She's barely breathing."

Ryan turns around immediately, pulling out his phone and dialing.

Esposito works on her hands while Castle unfastens her other ankle. Together they carry her outside.

The novelist waits a torturous ten minutes for an ambulance to show up while Ryan and Esposito go back inside to search the warehouse. Castle supplying CPR the entire time, trying to keep her body from shutting down completely. He only notices how fatigued his arms are when the paramedic pushes him off her and takes over.

Ryan runs out of the building. "It's empty!" Castle looks at him, bewildered. "The warehouse is empty. We found a control room full of surveillance cameras showing footage of her chair, but it's all being fed to a remote location. This guy could be in another state for all we know."

Beckett's body is rolled onto the gurney and it jerks as the bed is raised upright before the paramedics pull it toward the back of the ambulance.

Castle follows, staying with the paramedics, unable to leave her side. He looks back at Ryan who's registering Beckett's bloodied male-sized button-down for the first time. The writer watches him piece it together, getting all the implications and then some.

Ryan waves a hand at Castle. "Go, go, go. We'll meet you there."

Castle nods, never more appreciative than now at how the detective understands everything without having to be told.

Castle steps up into the back of the van, letting the driver close the doors, cutting him off from his friend. But instead of leaving, Ryan hangs back and Castle watches his form shrink through the window as they drive away, before the ambulance turns and he vanishes completely.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Careening speedily to the end here - this is the 2nd to last chapter. Hope it continues to be an enjoyable ride!_

_Thanks for all the comments so far - love hearing your thoughtful reactions._

_Per usual - no copyright infringement intended!_

* * *

The next few hours pass like an extended blur. The ambulance shoving itself through traffic on the way to the hospital, the gurney smashing through the front doors, the EMTs rushing down the corridor as they drag her into an open stall.

Different hospital, different hall, different trauma - but all exactly as it was before.

Castle is numb, completely numb, unable to digest any of the latest events. He just stands in the waiting room, hour after hour, even after a nurse suggests he takes a seat, even after Ryan brings him a lukewarm coffee, even after the lead detective on the case asks him the routine questions… even after her dad shows up. He just stands there next to him.

Only when Dr. Deras, the ER doctor emerges from the room, stripping her gloves off and pulling down her mask as she goes, does he push himself off the wall and react.

"She's stable."

Those oh-so-valuable words sink deep down into his gut. He exhales for the first time in hours, leaving him unprepared for how the doctor follows her initial statement.

"But she's comatose." She pauses, giving him time to absorb the new reality.

"What do you mean?" The question comes from Jim, but the trauma specialist addresses the answer to Castle.

"We think she was subjected to pronounced periods of asphyxiation. Not long enough to kill her, but long enough to put a significant stress on her organs. We re-oxygenated the brain and we've noticed improved function but she hasn't woken up yet."

Castle turns to her father and he can tell Jim already knows what he wants to ask. Mercifully her dad gives him his answer before the novelist needs to say anything.

"Go. Go sit with her."

Dr. Deras leads him into her room. His eyes float to her, taking her in. She looks so serene, so at peace, as if only the good parts of yesterday happened. He leans forward, scooping his hand underneath hers. And all the optimism that floods into him when he feels its warmth, drains from him when it doesn't respond to his touch.

Finally, the emotion hits him, his knees buckle and he has to sit down.

And that's where he stays, for hours, hoping for some twinge, some flicker that will bring her back to him. But he waits all through the night, past the cracking of dawn and well into the next afternoon and still... nothing.

Jim stays the night but leaves the following morning to get some of Kate's things from her apartment in a hope they might make her feel more comfortable, more at home.

Nurses fade in and out, the consistent hum of machines fall into the background and all he can see is her, looking perfect on the outside. No bruises, no cuts - just a placid version of herself, beautifully unburdened by any of her troubles.

His heart aches, wanting so badly for her to wake up and then thinking how selfish that is. How she's just visited hell and waking up may only consist of reliving that nightmare. He thinks, _hopes_, that his presence could keep that experience at bay, but that's the part of him that always wants to have his cake and eat it too.

He knows now, having ridden with her for three years, there isn't always a happy ending. And things don't always get better. Hard decisions have to made, and consequences may be suffered.

He wants her awake, but he has to wonder, what does she _need_?

He doesn't notice when the doctor shuffles in. He thinks it's just another nurse coming to check her vitals.

"Mr. Castle, can I have a word?"

The author turns to the door, the first time he's taken his eyes off Kate since he got there. Dr. Deras beckons for him to leave the room.

So this is a conversation she doesn't want to have in front of her patient, apparently. Castle files that away, not wanting to consider those implications right now.

Castle emerges to see the doctor ushering a man in a shirt and tie over to speak to him.

"Mr. Castle this is Dr. Burke."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," says the professional confidently as he gives the novelist's hand a hearty shake. Castle swears they've never met, yet something about his firm grip and his assured grin gives the author the feeling this guy knows him unbelievably well.

There's an awkward pause while Castle waits for someone to catch him up.

Finally Dr. Burke clarifies their introduction. "I was the therapist assigned to Detective Beckett during her recovery."

"Oh." Castle audibly registers the news. She never mentioned seeing a shrink but it makes sense that the department would assign her one. "I didn't realize she had a therapist."

The psychiatrist smiles. "It's mandatory. But Detective Beckett's a good patient. She knows the kind of help we can provide."

Castle feels inexplicably indebted to this man, believing this must be the person who helped Beckett open up to him. "I'm sure she does. She's not afraid to ask herself the tough questions."

He imagines Beckett sitting in her therapist's office, feet coiled beneath her, compiling her thoughts into sentences. Finding the courage to say what she's feeling, _exactly_ what she's feeling.

And then, in a second, he's back with her at the bottom of his couch listening to her tell him how he caught her completely off guard. How he overwhelmed her. How she kept herself away from him because after years of shutting herself down, she wasn't sure she could handle all the emotions that he stirred up inside her. How she overcame her fear when she could no longer deny how much she wanted him, _needed_ him.

The pain wells up in his chest and before he knows it he's eager to get back to her side. He gestures to her room. "I'd really like to…"

"Of course," Dr. Deras responds. "But first, Dr. Burke and I, we wanted to run something by you."

Castle looks up at them, his concern for Kate momentarily displaced by his curiosity.

"Detective Beckett is doing well. Physically she has completely recovered." Dr. Deras pauses and looks to Castle, waiting for him to ask the next logical question.

He obliges her inferred request. "Then why isn't she waking up?"

"The type of torture she endured is meant to break the subject not just physically, but psychologically." Burke rattles the info off like it's an everyday thing, an everyday experience people go through.

"So… what does that mean?

Dr. Deras interjects. "A coma is simply a way for the human body to shut down while it heals. But since we've determined Kate's not in need of any physical repair, we suspect that healing is psychological."

Dr. Burke glances at Castle before taking the explanation home. "Essentially, her mind isn't letting her wake up."

The scribe absorbs the information but the weight of the last twenty-four hours is hitting him and he doesn't know if he is really getting what they are hinting at. "Okay. Then what do we do?"

"There's an experimental drug out on the market called Propranolol. It's a beta blocker used to treat anxiety. Actors with extreme cases of stage fright might take a measured dose before a performance. A surgeon with a hand tremor might do the same. But lately it's been used to treat vets coming back from Afghanistan with P.T.S.D."

Castle fills in the pause that follows: "post-traumatic stress disorder?"

Dr. Deras nods. "In a large enough dose it may allow Kate to wake back up."

Ahhh, so they've got a solution already. A jolt of excitement runs through him but then he reads their faces, filled with expectation. Castle suspects there's more to the story. "What are the side effects?"

"It's harmless, physically…" says Dr. Deras.

"But?" the writer presses.

"But, administrating high doses, the kind we'd need to use to try to wake her, may cause some memory loss."

"How extensive?"

"Hard to tell, but the most anyone's ever lost is forty-eight hours," says Dr. Burke, hinting he possesses an extensive knowledge of the drug.

"Permanently?"

"Still too early to tell. There are a few test subjects that haven't recovered their memory and it's been over three years."

Castle absorbs this new piece of the puzzle. "So she won't remember anything about what happened to her?"

Dr. Burke shifts, taking lead of Castle's inquiry. "That's kind of the point. The more traumatic the event, the more necessary it is to block out the specifics. If the trauma was haunting enough, the mind may need to lose memory of it all together before it can recover."

Castle ponders their proposition, letting it gestate. His initial reaction is elation – he'd do anything to have her curl her hand around his again. And while he's desperate for any clue about what she's been through so he can take these men down himself, he'd gladly turn it all in for a chance to see her smile again.

Forty-eight hours isn't so bad. That's two days. What's two days?

"I'll have to talk to her father but it sounds like a good idea."

Dr. Deras pipes back in. "You have to understand, however, that her mind will be fragile, specifically about the time she's lost. You can never refer to anything that happened during those hours. You don't want to jar her memory. The consequences could be irreparable."

Castle nods, acknowledging their warning. "I'll have to talk to her father, of course. But if it means she gets to wake up..."

"Good. I think it's the right move too." Dr. Burke smiles. "Find me once you've talked to Mr. Beckett and we'll go over the details."

Castle nods, shakes Burke's hand again. "Thank you."

The therapist gives Castle an optimistic look before stepping away with Dr. Deras.

Castle turns back to her room but it's no longer empty. Josh stands over her bed. Hovering just like Castle was only a few moments ago. He watches him through the window, reading the heartache all over his face.

Castle steps lightly toward the room, needing to be at her side but not comfortable interrupting Josh's moment with her.

"When she didn't come home last night I phoned the precinct." Josh addresses him without turning around. "They told me what happened."

"I'm sorry. I should've called."

Josh shoots a harsh glare Castle's way. "Yes. You should've."

Castle sighs, he's getting off easy. If Josh only knew what else he missed yesterday. So he hangs back, letting Josh have his time but not leaving Kate either. He figures he's earned at least that much.

Josh turns back to Kate. "She was going to break up with me."

Castle shakes his head. Huh?

"She left me a voicemail yesterday. I could tell… by the tone of her voice. She was going to break up with me."

The author's mind whirrs. She must've called when he left the loft. She was heeding his words, wanting to be as fair as she could to Josh under the circumstances. His heart both leaps and sinks at the same time.

"You don't know that." But both men do.

"Ha." Josh wipes a lone tear from his cheek. "I think we are both too smart to play that game."

"She cares about you Josh."

"But she cares a hell of a lot more about _you_." Josh turns to deliver that line, and there's a flicker of fire behind his eyes. Jealousy, heartache and dread all rolled into one.

Castle steps back, shaken by Josh's bitterness. And because there's nothing else to stay.

Josh's shoulders drop, the fight leaving him as quickly as it came. "Doesn't matter. I lost her months ago. I was just holding on. Hoping she'd come around. Find a way to feel about me the way she feels about you."

Castle inhales deeply. Wanting so badly to know _exactly_ what Josh thinks Kate feels for him, but knowing he can never ask.

Instead he decides to fill Josh in on the latest. "The doctors want to try an experimental drug. It's supposed to help her wake up."

"Propranolol?"

"Yeah."

Josh rises. "It's a good idea. You should do it."

In lieu of his better judgment Castle reaches out and touches the doctor's arm as he passes him on his way out the door. "I've seen how she looks at you. You mean a lot to her. I can tell."

Josh just nods, gives him a small smile – one that says he'll try to stop hating him, but no promises – before he heads out of the room.

* * *

Castle stands there for a while; Beckett's rhythmic breathing beeping softly around him.

Forty-eight hours. How much had happened in forty-eight hours? He had dismissed it so readily at first. What was two days compared to a lifetime with her? And yet, everything for them had changed in those hours. If she didn't remember, where would they be when she woke up?

She had decided to break up with Josh. Was setting the gears in motion already. And before that they were in each other's arms, holding each other. Admitting to one another just how deeply they were both in this.

His breath hitches as he recalls taking her on his desk. No hesitation, no question. She had kissed him with abandon, giving him permission. And he had taken every ounce of her. Not leaving a lick behind.

And sometime before that she had written the letter. The one that spoke about spending the day with him after so many months apart. About him almost kissing her in the parking garage. About the disappointment she saw in his eyes when she told him to go home for the night after the chase had ended and there was nothing they could do other than take statements and file reports.

The one he has still, coveted in his desk drawer, its ink still drying in the dots of her 'i's and 'j's.

That letter might never exist for her when she woke up.

He turns to look at her. Wanting so badly for her to reassure him. Tell him he's doing the right thing. But she just lays there, a fragile shell of herself.

So he's left with a trade. Her memory of them together, for her life. He knows what he will do. There's no question. He will bring her back. But now he has to face the reality that she may wake up and no longer be his.


	19. Chapter 19

"We'll start off with a mild amount of the medication to see if it has any effect," says Dr. Deras as she stands over Kate's bed. "We will up the dosage in fifteen minute intervals, marking her responses as we go. We have a total of nine doses to try."

Jim lays a conciliatory hand on Castle's shoulder as they administer the first batch of Propranolol. There's a collective holding of breath as they wait for the medicine to enter her blood stream but it runs through her and ultimately… nothing.

Dr. Deras signals to the nurse to hand her the next dose. The nurse complies and the doctor injects the new shot into Kate's I.V. Still nothing.

Castle's heart leaps into his throat, waiting for the moment he can run to her - hold her hand and she'll hold it back - but each time his dreams are dashed. Even though he knows they are barely halfway into the procedure, a part of him already wants off this roller-coaster ride.

Until, finally, with the fifth dose, her eyelids flutter. Castle's the first to see it but the nurse is the one to note it, saying out loud, "patient responding. Twelve-oh-two p.m. Dosage seven-point-five milligrams."

Jim turns to Castle, beaming, and he can't help but find her father's hope overwhelmingly contagious.

The nurse preps a new needle and hands it to Dr. Deras. She injects the drug again, and while Kate's eyelids continue to flutter, all other signs remain unchanged. Until the seventh dose, when her fingers twitch for the briefest second.

Castle jumps in excitement.

"Hand tremor. Two–eleven p.m."

Dr. Deras looks back at Castle encouragingly.

He holds his breath as the M.D. administers the last of the medicine. His heart leaps as he watches Kate's lungs fill, sucking in a large gulp of air. Her eyelids pop open and she immediately scans the room, as if she's desperately trying to find someone before it all goes dark again.

She sees her father first. Jim smiles at her and she exhales in relief. But she doesn't stop looking until she finds Castle.

The writer freezes when their eyes meet, not wanting to break the connection. She's studying him and he realizes she's trying to figure out if he's real or not.

He moves toward her, wanting to touch her, solidify his presence for her. As he nears her bed he watches all the panic drain from her face. He reaches out and brushes her arm but as he does, she closes her eyes, falling away from him yet again.

The Nurse leans over her, checking her vitals.

"What does that mean?" he demands, desperate for someone to explain what's happening.

"We wait." The doctor speaks slowly, choosing her words. "We gave her the maximum, and as you saw yourself, she responded well. But her body needs time to adjust before we can evaluate the drug's lasting effects."

The room clears out, bodies shuffle past him but Castle doesn't move. He's holding on, coveting that look she gave him. The one that says she knows, that she remembers exactly what they mean to each other.

She's in there somewhere, and he's not going anywhere until he can see her again.

* * *

He's still standing there in the same spot when she wakes.

It starts as a slow stirring; as if she's being pulled form a deep slumber. Her body shifts and stretches. Her fingers flex. Her head - resting on one cheek, looking away from him - turns, and he watches her face roll into view as her eyelashes sweep up in unison like tiny twinned sunrise.

"Hey." Her throat is dry but her greeting is loose, relaxed.

"Hey," he returns. Much more somber than he wanted.

She glances at him, taking in his serious expression, the concern etched in his brow. She smiles playfully.

"What? I haven't lost a leg or something have I?" She looks down at herself, pats the bed. "Whew."

He lets out a laugh, but it's small and forced. "They say you're fine. Physically."

"Uh oh. What does that mean?"

He'd answer her question only he doesn't know himself. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Is this some kind of concussion test or something?"

He shakes his head no. Her easy mood making him uncomfortable more than anything else.

"Umm, okay, Mister Serious… let me think." She leans back, considering. "Wow, actually, there's kind of a big blank spot."

"They said that's normal. Just think back, it may be a bit, to the last thing you can remember."

He reaches out and takes her hand in his, as if he has the power to grasp her memory of him, pulling it out of her, keeping it intact and real in her conscious mind.

"I remember… being in the car, with you. And we were following Lucas. And then, oh my god, the Escalade." She opens her eyes wide, stares at him in disbelief. "I can't believe I almost forgot about that."

"Do you remember anything… after?"

She searches her mind, "No." Her forehead creases, pushing her concerns to the forefront, the reality of her situation sinking in. "It's black. It's just… all black."

His heart falls. Their time together has been erased.

He shores up, pushes his hurt down. He wants to make sure his voice is clear, calm. "Don't worry. It's a good sign. Means the treatment is working."

She looks at him quizzically, what treatment?

"I'll let the doctor explain."

She nods. "Okay." But he can see her grappling with the idea that something big has happened and she's been left out of the loop. Her fingers wiggle underneath his, trying to get away. He should let go, he knows he should, but he just can't seem to relinquish it.

His grasp releases when he sees that look on her face. That special look of confusion and fear. Just like the one she gave him when she lied to him about his confession in the graveyard.

It's obvious to him now, knowing everything going on in her mind. She's so scared that he's going to confront her about how he feels. She's not ready to hear it.

It's only been a couple of days, but they are back where they were three months ago.

The irony – yesterday she took the leap, yesterday she could handle it. And today that's all gone. As if it had never happened.

* * *

"I heard she was asking for me." Josh enters the room. His smile confident, so unlike the way he last left Castle.

The novelist had known this moment would come and that he should leave when it did. But somehow he couldn't help holding out hope that all of it – well not all of it, just the stuff about them – would come back to her. And then he'd be there, right there, to assure her it was real.

But now he's forced to watch them reunite. Forced to watch Josh swoop down and wrap his arms around her. He can't seem to turn away. Instead he watches, a lone witness, as the doctor stroke her cheek lightly, lovingly – _the cheek he laid endless kisses on just a little over a day ago_.

He cringes. And while his legs fight to stay rooted to the floor, he finds himself opening his mouth, excusing himself. Shoving his body out of the room.

"Mr. Castle?"

Dr. Burke strides by. "How's she doing?"

"Well, I think. She's awake. And she seems… happy."

"Good, better than we could've hoped."

Castle nods despite the fact that he wants to yell, scream at the top of his lungs: this is not better at all. This is so much worse.

"Now that we have an idea how much time she's lost, you should think back to what happened over the last day. Make sure to remove anything that might trigger her memory."

"Yes, thank you. I will do that." Castle hesitates. Not sure he wants the answer to his next question. "Will she ever… will she _ever_ remember?"

"I don't know. There is still so much to uncover about Propanalol's affects. However, for her sake, it might be better if her memory never comes back."

Castle winces, he can't help it. The idea that their time together is gone forever is simply too hard to swallow.

"Here's what I do know. The brain is an enigma. And if keeping those experiences at bay allows her to function again, then it's a good thing. Maybe someday - a year, two years, a decade from now - she'll remember. And if that memory comes back to her of its own volition, then that means she's ready to handle it. Ready to move on."

The psychiatrist steps closer, as if needing Castle to really hear his final words. "Whether or not she remembers is ultimately up to her. You have to let her discover it herself, when and _if_ she's ever ready."

Castle nods, appreciating the doctor's clarity, doing his best to keep his face from showing the dread that's building up within.

He turns to look at Kate through the windowed door. She lifts her head as Josh dips his down to take a phone call, and she catches her partner's eye. He reads her concern; she's worried about him. He's always been the easy-going one but now that's gone, replaced by a heavy weight she knows nothing about.

He looks away, not wanting her to see the anguish rearing up inside him. He's hiding himself, keeping his true feelings tucked away from her. And it occurs to him, this is the beginning of a world of that. He'll be on one side, keeping her in the dark, never letting her in. He's always been her partner, but now they'll be pitted against each other. Now he'll be yet another person in her life keeping secrets from her.

* * *

It's been a week but the hospital finally let her out and she's home. Back in her apartment. Back to her normal life. With only a few days of rest before she'll be back at work.

Josh helps her through the door, places her gently on the couch.

"You cleaned!"

"Got rid of some of my stuff. Figured it wasn't worth holding onto. I thought it would be a nice surprise."

"That's so sweet." She leans in and gives him a peck on the cheek. "Thank you."

"I got dinner for us too. Take out. That Chinese place you love on fifth. You hungry?"

"Lord, yes. Hospitals serve the crappiest food."

"You'd think it gets better when you're a doctor. It doesn't."

He ambles into the kitchen to prepare the food. She looks around, takes in her living room in its recreated state - looking more like a room in a young couple's apartment than her home.

As she sinks down into the couch cushions, she closes her eyes, surprised by how tired she is already.

"You want wine?" he calls from the other room.

"Love some!" She notices the extra cheer she's infused in her voice for him. She's trying oh-so hard. And while it's reasonable under any circumstances for her to be tired – she's in recovery after all - she knows that her body's not the problem. It's her heart that's hurting. And she can't explain why.

She puts on a poker face for every sweet gesture Josh perfects. She sells her gratitude but something, something feels terribly wrong. Like she's in the wrong apartment, with the wrong person - like she doesn't even belong in this space anymore.

She thinks hard about where this could be coming from. Why she's carrying this albatross around her neck. But her mind is blank, missing so much information. Running in circles, hitting walls at every turn. Except when she thinks about the letter.

She told Castle in the hospital room that the chase was the last thing she remembered but that wasn't true. The last thing she remembers is waking up in the middle of the night and pouring her heart out on the page.

She thinks this must be what's eating her alive. The knowledge that she carries all these feelings for another man. All these feelings that she can't bring herself to admit to him in person.

And before she can stop herself she's wandering into the bedroom looking for the letter. To make sure it's there. To make sure it's still safely tucked away.

She opens up her hutch and pulls out Montgomery's files, all neatly stacked in one corner, exactly where she left them. She shuffles through them once, then twice. But it's not there.

Did she move it? Hide it somewhere else?

Anxiety wells up inside of her and before she knows it she's ransacking the room, searching everywhere, desperate to find it. Soon the room is in shambles but the letter is still missing.

"Honey?"

She can hear Josh calling for her from the other end of the apartment. She forces herself to take deep breaths, needing to make sure her voice is calm, steady before she responds.

"Just a minute!"

She pulls herself together amidst the chaotic clutter, taking deep breaths that help reign in the panic.

She kneels down, slowly putting everything back as it was. Returning everything to its rightful place. Filling all the holes she created in the drawers, bookshelves and nightstands, with their possessions.

But nothing is filling the ever-expanding hole she has in her heart.

* * *

Castle sits at his desk, a tumbler filled with his secret stash, perched delicately in one hand. He is halfway to drunk but he can still feel the sting.

He holds the glass carefully, not wanting to stain her letter. The one he should've returned along with the files, but didn't. He's laid it out for himself along his desk, arranged it in a beautiful tapestry made out only of page and ink and her.

And while his goal is to push the pain away, he can't help but read and reread each of her words. His heart back in his throat like it was the first time he laid his eyes on it. His lips tingling with the expectation of her kiss. His blood rushing through him when he thinks of swooping her up in his arms and making her say yes to him all over again.

He takes another sip and decides there isn't enough liquor left in the bottle to get to numb today.

* * *

"I did what you suggested. I wrote him a letter."

Kate's back in Dr. Burke's office. Back on the couch.

"How did it go?"

"It was scary and… liberating. I've never done that before. Never let my fears take control and write themselves out into concrete sentiments."

"Did you learn anything?"

"That I'm not in love my boyfriend." It flies out of her mouth before she has a chance to censor it. She sighs, feeling horrible for uttering such a ruthless statement out loud. But maybe it means her guard is finally starting to come down. That she's finally accepting that Dr. Burke's office is _her_ room, her room to be free and honest with _herself_. And nothing is more honest than her realization about Josh. "He loves me, but I don't love him."

The therapist let's her sit with that conclusion, giving her time to process her own words. Finally he decides to interject. "That may not be a fun lesson to learn, but it's an important one. Listening, truly listening, to all of yourself – not just the parts of you that talk the loudest – is one of the most important skills you can have, especially as a cop."

"Then why don't I feel any better?"

"Because it's hard to do this kind of work. Especially when you are used to pushing your emotions down in order to move on - in order to get on with your job, your life. But as you've learned, that only works for so long."

Kate nods. He's right. She knows it. And yet…

"I thought..." her voice cracks a little, "I thought maybe if I put it down on paper I'd get it out of me, out of my system."

"But?" Dr. Burke encourages her to continue opening up.

"But it's like I've lost something now. Like something was taken from me. I just can't shake it."

"You have lost something. Time."

Kate fidgets, frustrated. "No, no. It's bigger than that. I can't get rid of the feeling that something important happened to me and I shouldn't leave it behind. I shouldn't let it fall away like all the other things that occurred that day."

"Don't push it Kate. Let yourself get there, but on your own time. Let your brain recover."

"But what if this feeling, this intuition, isn't something I should ignore?"

"You read the reports. You know the state you were in when they found you. Do you want to go back there?"

Kate shakes her head. That's the last thing she wants. If she goes back there she can't work, she can't investigate. She can't be his partner.

If she goes back there, they win.

But still…

"Listen, Kate. I've seen this kind of trauma exert itself on my patients and I've watched a few of them die from it. Either by abusing themselves with alcohol or drugs, or by literally taking matters into their own hands." He gives her a stern stare.

She bows her head. If he's trying to scare her, it's working.

He softens. "Let the medicine do its job. Let it help you."

Kate nods. He's making a lot of sense.

"You could search for it. You could force yourself back there. But we all know what happens when we do that."

Kate raises her head. Curious as to how he is going to finish that thought.

Dr. Burke cocks his head and grins. "Knock on the devil's door long enough, he's bound to open it for you."

THE END

* * *

A/N: I saved this author's note for last quite simply because about halfway through posting this story I suddenly got very nervous and thought, _oh no, what if everyone who's reading this story feels like I pulled the rug out from under them at the end?_

Well (and let's be clear about this, the fact that I'm _explaining_ myself here in and of itself could be considered a minor failure on my part as a writer of fanfic – but anyhoo) I came up with this idea right after the season 3 finale. I was looking for a way to get Castle and Beckett together but not lose the angst. Plus, sex for the first time is always explosive and I didn't want it to get old (shame on me for not pushing myself to get more creative in the bedroom!). So here's a way to give them sex for the first time, and then the next time will be like the first time all over again.

Most importantly, at the end of my 'season' you would be at a cliffhanger. _Oh no! Things are really crappy, but there's this thin ray of hope. Let's tune in next season to find out if things get better. _ (And yes, I have my 'season 5' story loosely mapped out already).

However, this is fanfic, not a season of television. So if I did that wrong, I apologize. It was not my intent to set up cool stuff and then just walk away. It was my intent to build a plausible world for these characters to come together and then force them apart so we could enjoy watching them come together again in the future.

Feel free to let me know your thoughts. If you think I've taken a wrong turn, ended on a wrong note – let me know it! For me, what's so valuable about fanfiction is that I get to hear straight from the horse's mouth whether you are on the journey with the characters or not. And if you're not, when and how did I lose you? If I held your attention up to this last chapter and now you feel cheated, that's ok, just tell me that's what happened. Or maybe you're a little bitter but kinda excited that there's more to come? (Maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part…)

Regardless, this has been a fantastic experience for me. I have loved writing this story, posting this story, and hearing from all you passionate & articulate fans of the show who are invested in these characters and who they are at their core. You made me think about my choices and see some of them in a new light. Some people like to write in a vacuum but I like to throw it out there to see how it holds up.

You guys help make writing fun!


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